It’s a boast that no race can match ’em In expedients sure ter win: And all others must get up right early If they would n’t be taken in!
As a proof of this ere declaration They tell of one up at Cape Cod, Who’s so all-fir’d smart he endeavor’d Ter play a trump kerd at his God!
He’s a fisherman by occerpation, Is this feller they call Bob Munn; And ter dry his fish he ask’d mandamus Ter sercure more light from the sun!
The court would not listen ter the motion, But this action did not appall: He fix’d up a merchine ter uterlize The rerfulgent rays of old Sol.
With powerful glasses he center’d The rays on his cargoes of cod, And chuckl’d right smart at his success In stealin’ the smiles of his God!
For a time his merchine work’d ter a charm, And his sackerlege war endur’d; While his rivals in trade war astonish’d At the many quintals he cur’d.
But Bob Munn, he grew bold in his averice, And the splendid march he had stole Upon his Creator and his rivals, E’en at the expense of his soul.
He had read in the Scripters of Lot’s wife Who ter salt war chang’d in a night, As a punershment for diserbedience And exercizin’ wimin’s right—
(A right ter pry inter other’s affa’rs By evesdroppin’ if she’s inclin’d, For which each one of ’em should be treated As Lot’s mistress what look’d berhind.)
But, endin’ he aposterphe, I must Return ter the exploits of Munn, Who ignor’d the bounty of Jerhover, And corntiner’d ter steal the sun!