I dreamt our friends at Congress
Were running ten-round bouts;
That McLaurin went on with Tillman,
And scored some clean knockouts.
I dreamt there was no grafting,
That politics were clean;
But then, you bet, I just woke up,
I knew that was a dream.
Verily, verily, Republics and friends are ungrateful.
Do you know, all the gentlemen I mentioned in that song I just sang are my friends?
Talking of friends, puts me in mind of an ungrateful cuss I once called by this over-worked figure of speech.
He met me on the street, slapped me on the back, and said:
"Hello, old man!"
"Hello!" says I, "what do you want?"
"What do I want?" says he. "I want ten dollars."