And then take and send him some roses in bloom,
And you kin have fun out o’ him!
You’ve seed him, ’fore now, when his liver was sound,
And his appetite notched like a saw,
A chaffin’ you, mebby, for romancin’ round
With a big posey bunch in yer paw.
But you ketch him, say, when his health is away
And he’s flat on his back, in distress,
And then you can trot out your little bokay
And not be insulted, I guess!