But, just for a change, please sing us a song,
Of the sore-toed boy that's fly,
And freckled and mean, and ugly, and bad,
And positively will not die.
CHANSON DE BOHEME
_Lives of great men all remind us
Rose is red and violet's blue;
Johnny's got his gun behind us
'Cause the lamb loved Mary too._
--Robert Burns' "Hocht Time in the aud Town."
I'd rather write this, as bad as it is
Than be Will Shakespeare's shade;
I'd rather be known as an F. F. V.
Than in Mount Vernon laid.
I'd rather count ties from Denver to Troy
Than to head Booth's old programme;
I'd rather be special for the New York _World_
Than to lie with Abraham.
_For there's stuff in the can, there's Dolly and Fan,
And a hundred things to choose;
There's a kiss in the ring, and every old thing
That a real live man can use._
I'd rather fight flies in a boarding house
Than fill Napoleon's grave,
And snuggle up warm in my three slat bed
Than be Andre the brave.
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