BISHOP PETE.
Well, you've your consolation now—he's pun-
ished clean, I'm thinking,
He's ten times deeper in the slough, up to his
neck and sinking.
There's vinegar in Abe's pale face enough to
sour a barrel,
Goes crawling up and down the place, neglect-
ing his apparel,
Seems to have lost all heart and soul, has fits of
absence shocking—
His home is like a rabbit's hole when weasels
come a-knocking.
And now and then, to put it plain, while falling
daily sicker,
I think he tries to float his pain by copious goes
of liquor.