With Saturdays open for rackets and things.
A busy week? Well, I guess, but wait,
I mustn’t forget, my friend, to state
There warn’t no fun’ral for ten miles’round,
No dear departed tucked under ground,
No mourners jammed in a settin’ room,
Sozzled in grief and soaked in gloom,
But Perley was there with his rich, cream bass
To trickle like salve on the wounded place.
And the tears would dry on each mourner’s