Shapes of Clay

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.

O, what a Sunday-school it was

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 make 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 Legislator; 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;

But, if you think it's actin' white

To tell it—Thomas throwed a fight!