The steak was better cooked. And then he’d swear—
Oh, death and dandelions! how he would swear!
Till all the blood of all the boarders round
Was almost turned to cherry-water ice,
And each and all wished they could fly away.
And yet this waiter had a fund reserved
Of pretty stout pugnacity and pride,
And every time the boarder called him “fool,”
Or “low-born rooster,” he would add it up
To the preceding pile of expletives,