He
is a man in our town,
He is full prone to swear;
‘Tis
seldom he will say a word,
But when he does it’s awful.
You
say to him: “Good morning sir,
I hope you’re feeling well;”
Just
like as not he’ll answer thus:
“You,
sir, can go to thunder!”
You
mention neighbor Brown with praise,
He’ll raise an awful fuss;
“Ezekiel
Brown?” He’ll thunder out,
“Why he’s a mean old skinflint!”
No
matter how you speak to him,
As gentle as a lamb,
Or
in a most commanding tone
He’ll simply curse and rail.
O,
shame that such a man as he
Should be allowed to dwell
And
tell his neighbors good and kind
That they can go to blazes.
I
hope that when he anears his end,
Where dwells no sin or sham,
And
he is face to face with death,
He will forget to swear so.
Feb.
9, ‘10
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