The oilman said, while silence lay in chunks;
“I pray don’t think me rude”—
A list’ner spoke—“It strikes me you’re a man
Must practice on the lyre.”
The oilman smil’d: “His rich aunt used the can
To hurry up the fire!”
He put the glycerine to thaw, the water was too hot,
The stuff let go; it was the man, and not the well, was shot.
“No!” said the oilman’s daughter, when young Dudelet sought her hand,
“You may have lots of money, but you haven’t got the sand.”