last night we’ll be here alive.
To-morrow at six we all cut sticks for the rear of
the West Branch drive.
Hooray!
For Seboomook, and rear of the drive.
Oh, bartender, say, can’t you hustle them up?
Come, push out your reddest of paint,
We’re here for to splatter the carnation on, now
blow us for fools if we ain’t!
So set out your varnish for coffins, my boy,—