But I beat them, and their sun goes down!
They try all sorts of "counters" to
My slogging strokes—in vain.
The "Thunderer" slates me every day,
But still I slog again.
Old W.G. in 'Ninety-Three
May form a Cabinet;
Then his first thought will be of Me,
And all will cry (you bet!)—
Chorus.