And though you smell all day and night,
The onion has no smell at all.
This is wilful peevishness: the protest of some professional kicker:
MY SOCKS.
My feet are number seven, but the law says I must wear
A pair of socks that are five sizes small;
That’s why I cry aloud and dance and at the keepers swear,
And on the State the wrath of Heaven call.
I wish the Sheriff, Governor, the Judge and President
And the Jury were all here behind the locks;