I BERLIEVE it’s cornceeded on all sides
That of all the cute bipeds made
Since the world war created, the Yankee
Allers gets the best in a trade!
It’s a boast that no race can match ’em
In expedients sure ter win:
And all others must get up right early
If they would n’t be taken in!
As a proof of this ere declaration
They tell of one up at Cape Cod,
Who’s so all-fir’d smart he endeavor’d
Ter play a trump kerd at his God!
He’s a fisherman by occerpation,
Is this feller they call Bob Munn;
And ter dry his fish he ask’d mandamus
Ter sercure more light from the sun!
The court would not listen ter the motion,
But this action did not appall:
He fix’d up a merchine ter uterlize
The rerfulgent rays of old Sol.
With powerful glasses he center’d
The rays on his cargoes of cod,
And chuckl’d right smart at his success
In stealin’ the smiles of his God!
For a time his merchine work’d ter a charm,
And his sackerlege war endur’d;
While his rivals in trade war astonish’d
At the many quintals he cur’d.
But Bob Munn, he grew bold in his averice,
And the splendid march he had stole
Upon his Creator and his rivals,
E’en at the expense of his soul.
He had read in the Scripters of Lot’s wife
Who ter salt war chang’d in a night,
As a punershment for diserbedience
And exercizin’ wimin’s right—
(A right ter pry inter other’s affa’rs
By evesdroppin’ if she’s inclin’d,
For which each one of ’em should be treated
As Lot’s mistress what look’d berhind.)
But, endin’ he aposterphe, I must
Return ter the exploits of Munn,
Who ignor’d the bounty of Jerhover,
And corntiner’d ter steal the sun!
The story of Lot’s wife impress’d him
With a more avericious wish—
The diskivery of arter-fish-al means
For ter salt his catches of fish.
On the shores of Cape Cod in them days
Many old maids sigh’d alone
For the lips of a man ter caress ’em,
And the means ter sercure a home.
They had been doom’d ter sore diserpointment,
The girlish bloom had diserpear’d,
Leavin’ a shad-er of thar lost beauty
On the features so dry and sear’d.
Bob Munn, he long ponder’d on the subject
Of testin’ that ere recerpe,
What work’d ter a charm at old Gomorrer,
And set a poor hen-peck’d man free!
God had smil’d upon his undertakin’s,
And he felt he might tempt him still,
With a more ingenious expererment,
Ter bring a fresh grist ter his mill.
Then he sent out many invertations—
Corlected the maids at his board,
And while they war gossippin’ o’er thar tea
In his chamber he ask’d the Lord—
Ter merakerlously chenge ’em ter salt
The cheaper ter cure his fresh cod;
Then in faith he erose from his marrers,
And his sinful tamp’rin’ with God!
Now Bob Munn in his folly expected
On rejinin’ his guests ter find
The work he’d mapped out for the Master,
Perform’d by His Infernite mind.