Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there's a griddle-cake br'ilin'—
For the two of us, pard—and thar, I allow, the heavens
Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.
Stranger, nowhere else I don't take no satisfaction.
Gimme my ranch, 'n' them friendly old Shanghai chickens—
I brung the original pair f'm the States in eighteen-'n'-fifty—
Gimme me them and the feelin' of solid domestic comfort.
Yer parding, young man—
But this landscape a kind
Er flickers—I 'low 'twuz the po'try—