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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
Aye, but Jack—aw, none of your blubber
At Jack, not him—just Indian-rubber
All over, aw, a bird of the game,
None of your buttermilk, none of your craem,
Dry, man, dry—and the springy hipped,
The reg'lar whalebone! See him stripped!
That was the thing—aw, belly or back!
See him stripped, and there was Jack.
He was raelly awful, a sort of a shine
Like shells, like—aw, it's no use try'n'—
Comin' off him—lek a kind o'brassy—
Lek these yallar images, aye was he.
Lek the blood, ye see, was a sort of a venom,
Or varnish, or vitriol that was in him.
Quick though, quick—for Harry would swing
His arms like a windmill, but Jack would spring
Like a goose's merry-thought, and at ye he'd come
Like a dart, like a wasp, like a rocket by gum!
At Jack, not him—just Indian-rubber
All over, aw, a bird of the game,
None of your buttermilk, none of your craem,
Dry, man, dry—and the springy hipped,
The reg'lar whalebone! See him stripped!
That was the thing—aw, belly or back!
See him stripped, and there was Jack.
He was raelly awful, a sort of a shine
Like shells, like—aw, it's no use try'n'—
Comin' off him—lek a kind o'brassy—
Lek these yallar images, aye was he.
Lek the blood, ye see, was a sort of a venom,
Or varnish, or vitriol that was in him.
Quick though, quick—for Harry would swing
His arms like a windmill, but Jack would spring
Like a goose's merry-thought, and at ye he'd come
Like a dart, like a wasp, like a rocket by gum!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |