 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
THE UNPARDONABLE SIN
I reckon that ye never knew,That dandy slugger, Tom Carew.
He had a touch as light an' free
As that of any honey-bee;
But where it lit there wasn't much
To jestify another touch.
217
To watch him puttin' up his paws
An' roominate upon their heft—
Particular his holy left!
Tom was my style—that's all I say;
Some others may be equal gay.
What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure;
He's dead—which makes his fate obscure.
I only started in to clear
One vital p'int in his career,
Which is to say—afore he died
He soiled his erming mighty snide.
Ye see he took to politics
And learnt them statesmen-fellers' tricks;
Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent,
Just like he was the President;
Went to the Legislater; spoke
Right out agin the British yoke—
But that was right. He let his hair
Grow long to qualify for Mayor,
An' once or twice he poked his snoot
In Congress like a low galoot!
It had to come—no gent can hope
To wrastle God agin the rope.
Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead,
I s'pose it oughtn't to be said,
For sech inikities as flow
From politics ain't fit to know.
218
To tell it—Thomas throwed a fight!
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |