I can’t manage as I used to; mother’s gittin’
pretty slim,
An’ to hold our prop’ty longer is a whim, bub,
jest a whim!
So I’ll tell ye what I’m plannin’, an’ I know
that marm agrees,
We’ll sign off an’ make it over; then we’ll sort
o’ take our ease.
So, hitch up to-morrer mornin’—drive us down
to Lawyer True,