“Who sold the nutmegs made of wood, the clocks that wouldn’t figure?
Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark—the everlasting nigger?
For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through ’tarnity I’ll kick
That man, I guess, though nothing less than coon-faced Colonel Slick!”
The Colonel smiled—with frenzy wild—his very beard waxed blue—
His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew;
He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat below—
He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe;
“Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!” he cried, with ire elate,
“Darn my old mother but I will in wild cats whip my weight!