I am white, and I’m brown; I am large, and I’m small;
Male and female I am, and yet that’s not all—
I’ve a head without brains, and a mouth without wit;
I can stand without legs, but I never can sit.
Although I’ve no mind, I am false and I’m true,
Can be faithful and constant to time and to you;
I am praised and I’m blamed for faults not my own,
But I feel both as little as if I were stone.
A bust.
When does a sculptor explode in strong convulsions? When he makes faces and—and—busts!
Why was “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” not written by a female hand? Because it was written by Mrs. Beecher’s toe (Stowe).
Why is intoxication like a slop bowl? ’Cos it am de-basin’ (debasing)!
When my first is my last, like a Protean elf,
Will black become white, and a part of yourself?
Ebon—bone.
Why is a short negro like a lady’s light-blue organdy muslin dress, when it is trimmed with poppies and corn-flowers, and she wears it at a Monday hop? Because he’s not at-all black!
Why is a black man necessarily a conjurer? Because he’s a negro-man-sir (necromancer).
Apropos of blacks, why is a shoe-black like an editor? Because he polishes the understandings of his patrons.