There stood a potato-man In the midst of all the wet; He stood with his 'tato-can In the lonely Haymarket.
Two gents of dismal mien. And dark and greasy rags, Came out of a shop for gin Swaggering over the flags:
Swaggering over the stones,
These snabby bucks did walk
And I went and followed those seedy ones,
And listened to their talk.
Was I sober or awake?
Could I believe my ears?
Those dismal beggars spake
Of nothing but railroad shares.
I wondered more and more:
Says one—"Good friend of mine,
How many shares have you wrote for
In the Diddlesee Junction line?"
"I wrote for twenty," says Jim,
"But they wouldn't give me one;"
His comrade straight rebuked him
For the folly he had done:
"O Jim, you are unawares
Of the ways of this bad town;
I always write for five hundred shares,
And THEN they put me down."
"And yet you got no shares,"
Says Jim, "for all your boast;"
"I WOULD have wrote," says Jack, "but where
Was the penny to pay the post?"
"I lost, for I couldn't pay
That first instalment up;
But here's taters smoking hot—I say
Let's stop, my boy, and sup."
And at this simple feast
The while they did regale,
I drew each ragged capitalist
Down on my left thumb-nail.