Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat⸺”
“Me,” says Magpie, kinda foolish-like.
“You!” snorts Art. “Tune your merry note! Haw! Haw! Haw! You could ‘lie⸺’”
“Mebbe you could!” says Magpie, mean-like. “But your wife wouldn’t let yuh.”
“Set down, you ancient he buzzards!” I yelps. “Ain’t yuh got no sense?”
“I don’t understand,” says Henrietta.
“Nobody does,” says I, consoling her. “If we did, we’d know whether to lynch ’em or send ’em to the loco lodge, ma’am.”
“Magpie makes me tired,” declares Art. “Any time he wants to tune his note⸺”