Long ’z you suppose your votes can turn biled kebbage into brain,
An’ ary man thet’s pop’lar’s fit to drive a lightnin’-train,—
Long ’z you believe democracy means I’m ez good ez you be,
An’ thet a feller from the ranks can’t be a knave or booby,—
Long ’z Congress seems purvided, like yer street-cars an’ yer ’busses,
With oilers room for jes’ one more o’ your spiled-in-bakin’ cusses,
Dough’thout the emptins of a soul, an’ yit with means about ’em
(Like essence-peddlers[25]) thet ’ll make folks long to be without ’em,
Jest heavy ’nough to turn a scale thet’s doubtfle the wrong way,
An’ make their nat’ral arsenal o’ bein’ nasty pay,—