 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
THREE HIGHWAYMEN
A street contractor, t'other morn,Walked out before the day was born.
The silver moon beyond his reach
Had prudently retired, and each
Fair golden star his clutch that feared
Trembled, grew pale, and disappeared.
The sun rose not—afraid to risk
His tempting, double-eagle disk.
Our hero—why spin out the verse?—
Two robbers robbed him of his purse,
Left him uncomfortably spread
On his own pavement, semi-dead,
And ran away exultant. He
Sang “Murder!” “Fire!” in every key,
Until politeness bade him cease
For fear of waking the police.
Then straight unto the Chief, all faint,
He made his way and his complaint:
127
“We battled and—well, look at me!—
Sad citizen, O Chief, you see.”
“How much?” asked that sententious man.
“Well, sir, as nearly as I can
Compute it, though I gave them fits,
They got away—with my six bits.”
“Why, damn your avaricious soul!”
The Chief said: “do you claim the whole?
You did quite well to get, begad,
Within six bits of all they had!”
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |