Of angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp,
An’ wonder how they made ’em flop.
He’d calkerlate how long a skid
’Twould take to move the sun, he did;
An’ if the skid wuz strong an’ prime,
It couldn’t be moved to supper-time.
An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the lout
If he wouldn’t kinder waltz about
An’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies,
He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”