A bit in their sacks, too, they fetched—
They sweated their duds till they riz it;
For Larry was always the lad,
When a friend was condemned to the squeezer,
To fence all the togs that he had,
Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer,
And moisten his gob ’fore he died.
“I’m sorry now, Larry,” says I,
“To see you in this situation;
’Pon my conscience, my lad, I don’t lie,