Try not to overcharge us now, or make our pockets bleed;
You cannot do it now again—thou'rt sold, my man, indeed.
Fret not with that impatient cough: if surlily inclined,
The nearest station is the place at which redress to find;
The magistrates have now the power to mulct thee of thy gold,
Or send thee off to jail, my friend. Thou'rt sold, my man, thou'rt sold.
'Tis well! those old and crazy wheels not many a mile can roam;
After next October you must keep that vehicle at home.
Some other cab less old and torn you shortly must prepare,
With roof not full of crevices, admitting rain and air.