Sing a song of sick gents,
Pockets full of rye,
Four and twenty highballs,
We wish that we might die.
Two booze-fiends were ambling homeward at an early hour, after being out nearly all night.
"Don't your wife miss you on these occasions?" asked one.
"Not often," replied the other; "she throws pretty straight."
"Where's old Four-Fingered Pete?" asked Alkali Ike. "I ain't seen him around here since I got back."