Our losses are all reinsured—why, in fact,
We never, in all our official career,
Felt more gay and festive, more full of good cheer.
Just put up the rates and go on with the biz,
These losses will all be arranged with a whiz.
The thing we will have straightened out in a jiffy,
And the next that you'll hear will be ten per cent, divvy."
But you ought to have seen them when, in the back room,
They poured out anathemas like a mill-flume
On that old Leary cow with the crumpled horn