In the hostile berg of Stockton, Cal.
They had mooched the stem and threw their feet,
And speared four bits on which to eat;
But deprived themselves of their daily bread,
And sluffed the coin for dago-red.
Then, down by the tracks, in the jungle’s glade,
On the cool, green grass in the tule’s shade,
They shed their coats, and ditched their shoes,
And tanked up full of that colored booze.
Then, they took a flop with their hides plumb full,