To serve his land, in speechless self-denying,
Yea, even to the Death!—provided there’s
Some other idiot to do the dying.
CHORUS.
(Suitable to be sung at Anti-Proletarian Sunday Schools.)
Far away in sunny Alabamma,
Where the pickaninny cotton-bushes grow,
You can flatten out a nigger with a hammer
Or put it well across him with your toe.
That’s the way to deal with subject races