Or skeer ’im stiff he’s goin’ ter croak.
But still he’d grin—tho’ co’se I knowed he’s fakin’—
An’ say he didn’t give a dam fer
A thing ’cept t’ ev thet “risin’” quit its achin’;
An’ then he ’d sniff ’t a bottl’ o’ camfer.
At last I sez, an’ tapped ’im on the wrist,
“Ef I was yew I’d chuck fer fair
Them soaky puddin’ rags, an’ give yer fist
Jes’ antyskeptick wash an’ air.”
Thet ’s all I said, an’ left ’im at ’is door