The General’s joint is when the loine he dresses.
That’s not the worst; it’s more than I can bear,
To hear the little beggar cry “form square!”
One into four, won’t go. He says it will.
Nothing goes into me I know, but drill.
From morn till night he has me on my legs,
He’ll wear them off “as sure as eggs are eggs.”
He talks of “wings,” as if I were a bird.
“By your left wheel!” he cries. The thing’s absurd.
I’d like to know why should I buy a wheel!