THE EFFEMINATE MAN.
The effeminate man is a weak poultiss.
He is a kross between root beer and ginger pop with the cork left out ov the bottle over night.
He is a fresh water mermaid lost in a cow pastur, with his hands filled with dandylions.
He is a tea-kup full of whipped sillybub—a kitten in pantylets—a sick monkey with a blonde mustash.
He is a vine without enny tendrills—a fly drowned in sweet ile—a paper kite in a ded calm.
He lives as the butterflise do—noboddy kan tell whi. He is as harmless as a cent’s wuth ov spruce gum, and as useless as a shirt button without enny button-hole.
He is as lazy as a bread-pill, and has no more hope than a last year’s grasshopper.
He is a man without enny gaul, and a woman without enny gissard.
He goes thru life on his tiptose, and dies like colone water spilt on the ground.