Than the chisel the lawgiver knew;
The snip of my shears is more dreaded of men
Than the sword that Napoleon drew.
I foil the young man with a nose for the news,
And I stifle the first feeble note
Of the soldier who ventures to air any views
That he never was paid to promote.
Oh, it’s snip, snip, snip is the rhythmic swing
Of my shears in the morning light,
And clip, clip, clip is the raucous ring