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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
585
But, bless ye! I might take and worret
My brains till next week, and I cudn' give it
The way the Pazon did—like a rivet,
The close and the sthrong—uncommon though!
And still, for all, was there wutches or no—
Aw, my gough! it's hard to be sayin'—
Aye—but seemin' ter'ble plain
When the Pazon was agate of the arguin' talk;
Nor me, nor even Jack didn' balk
The Pazon, nor never stirred nor winced,
But let him go on; but whether convinced—
It isn' me—my goodness, no!
But ter'ble quite and pleasant though.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |