I took off my boot, got a light, and—the rest I'll tell you in my latest sonata, entitled:
"Oh, Bring Back My Tabby To Me."
Not a mew was heard, not a feline note,
As his corpse to the back yard I hurried;
For I laid him low with my trusty boot,
And thought it was time he was buried.
So I sallied forth, in the dead of the night,
My head meanwhile cautiously turning,
For I feared that his mistress, the old maid next door,
Might catch on and give me a burning.
No orthodox coffin enclosed the defunct,
Not in paper or rag did I wind him;
But I shoveled him into his cold, narrow bed,
Where no one was likely to find him.
Yes, softly she'll call to the spirit that's gone,
From his new home in vain to allure.
But little he'll care; for Tom will sleep on—
He has an illness no doctor can cure.
That's a pretty good song, if I do say so myself. I always feel like laughing when I sing it, though. It reminds me of my dear departed friend, Tom O'Moore.
This Tom was the brightest fellow that ever lived.
One day he was greatly troubled with an aching tooth. He went to the dentist and exhibited his swollen jaw.