Accordin’ to J. B.,
Thet’s fit for you an’ me!”
Blood ain’t so cool as ink, John:
It’s likely you’d ha’ wrote,
An’ stopped a spell to think, John,
Arter they’d cut your throat?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
He’d skurce ha’ stopped,” sez he,
“To mind his p-s an’ q-s, ef thet weasan’
Hed b’longed to ole J. B.,