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. 
   I’d rather distribute a coat of red
      On the town with a wad of dough
   Just now, than to have my cognomen
      Spelled “Michael Angelo.”

   For a small live man, if he’s prompt on hand
      When the good things pass around,
   While the world’s on tap has a better snap
      Than a big man under ground.

HARD TO FORGET

   I’m thinking to-night of the old farm, Ned,
      And my heart is heavy and sad
   As I think of the days that by have fled
      Since I was a little lad. 
   There rises before me each spot I know
      Of the old home in the dell,
   The fields, and woods, and meadows below
      That memory holds so well.

   The city is pleasant and lively, Ned,
      But what to us is its charm? 
   To-night all my thoughts are fixed, instead,
      On our childhood’s old home farm. 
   I know you are thinking the same, dear Ned,
      With your head bowed on your arm,
   For to-morrow at four we’ll be jerked out of bed
      To plow on that darned old farm.

DROP A TEAR IN THIS SLOT

   He who, when torrid Summer’s sickly glare
   Beat down upon the city’s parched walls,
   Sat him within a room scarce 8 by 9,
   And, with tongue hanging out and panting breath,
   Perspiring, pierced by pangs of prickly heat,
   Wrote variations of the seaside joke
   We all do know and always loved so well,
   And of cool breezes and sweet girls that lay
   In shady nooks, and pleasant windy coves
   Anon
   Will in that self-same room, with tattered quilt
   Wrapped round him, and blue stiffening hands,
   All shivering, fireless, pinched by winter’s blasts,
   Will hale us forth upon the rounds once more,
   So that we may expect it not in vain,
   The joke of how with curses deep and coarse
   Papa puts up the pipe of parlor stove. 
   So ye
   Who greet with tears this olden favorite,
   Drop one for him who, though he strives to please
   Must write about the things he never sees.

TAMALES