And pa he spit in both his fists
And give the handle two three twists,
And swung the beetle round and round
To give one big, gol-rippin’ pound.
One knee was right up’ginst his chin,
His eyes stuck out, his lips sucked in,
And down he fetched her with a jolt,
But pa—but pa—he missed his holt!
He lost his grip, the pessle flew,
And folks they scattered, I tell you.