’Twas the voice of the “Special,” they heard him complain,
“Oh, bother the telegram! Copy again?”
His fingers were cramped, and his eyelids were red,
And he yawned, for the “Special” had not been in bed.
He had written “atrocity” scenes without number
On a cannon or drum, or some odd pile of lumber;
Had reeled off adventures, romances, realities—
All a Special considers his own Specialities.
Then he dashed down his pen, took a whiff at a “briar,”
And glanced at his costume all covered with mire;