But just before he counters
While listening to us “spar,”
You will never see the equal
Of good, old Mac’s cigar.
It’s whirled round like a cyclone;
It’s feathered like an owl;
It’s mussed up like a scrap can
Or poor-plucked barnyard fowl.
It’s frayed and furred and serrate;
It’s toothed and torn and spurred;