Wit and Humor of America, The Vol 07



"This Omar seems a decent chap," said Flapjack Dick one night,
When he had read my copy through and then blown out the light.
"I ain't much stuck on poetry, because I runs to news,
But I appreciates a man that loves his glass of booze.
"And Omar here likes a good red wine, although he's pretty mum;
On liquors, which is better yet, like whisky, gin, or rum;
Perhaps his missus won't allow him things like that to touch,
And he doesn't like to own it. Well, I don't blame Omar much.
"Then I likes a man what's partial to the ladies, young or old,
And Omar seems to seek 'em much as me and you seek gold;
I only hope for his sake that his wife don't learn his game
Or she'll put a chain on Omar, and that would be a shame.
"His language is some florid, but I guess it is the style
Of them writer chaps that studies and burns the midnight ile;
He tells us he's no chicken; so I guess he knows what's best,
And can hold his own with Shakespeare, Waukeen Miller, and the rest.
"But I hope he ain't a thinkin' of a trip to this yere camp,
For our dancin' girls is ancient, and our liquor's somewhat damp
By doctorin' with water, and we ain't got wine at all,
Though I had a drop of porter—but that was back last fall.
"And he mightn't like our manners, and he mightn't like the smell
Which is half the charm of Dawson; and he mightn't live to tell
Of the acres of wild roses that grows on every street;
And he mightn't like the winter, or he mightn't like the heat.
"So I guess it's best for Omar for to stay right where he is,
And gallivant with Tottie, or with Flossie, or with Liz;
And fill himself with claret, and, although it ain't like beer,
I wish he'd send a bottle—just one bottle—to us here."

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