CANTO I

A CUTE little dope fiend sat cleaning his ear,
One bright summer morning in June.
He dug with the stump of a pencil—how queer!
His own patent cleanser—poor loon!

From his name, Pefularties, you'd think him a Greek;
But no! Not at all! He is only a sneak
From prosy York State, a regular freak
          Who digs with a pencil;
          Alas! such a dense Bill.

At school he won Greek prize by cheating,
And then he gave a child a beating
Because the child was very wise,
Smelling the trick that stole the prize.

So instead of plain Billy boy,
All his crowd in a silly joy
Dubbed him Greek Pefularties—
'Twill his dear Ma and Pa tease.
          Poor Pa!
          Poor Ma!
Who always condone their pet,
Dear Billy goat boy, you bet!

          The next event,
          Him great fame lent.
He stole some rubber coats,
Then sold them; felt his oats,
Just like a well-fed nag.
Hugging his money bag
He ran away to fair Colorado.
Deserting both his Ma and Dad, Oh!

For many years he roamed the wild West,
Then thought he might prefer the South best.
          Dazzled by vain glory,
          Now comes the pain story.

CANTO 2

One picture of the South I'll now present:
Down in a pit is Pefularties pent;
Deep in the pit did Pefularites fall.
He tries, he tries, but can't get out at all.
Was ever a poor sinner in such stress?
He can't get out—he's in an awful mess.

An alligator, living in the pit,
Has grabbed him by one leg, he thinks he's it.
He loves to hear poor Pefularties squeal,
He loves to see him wriggle like an eel.
The alligator smiles with ardent zeal,
Fixing his face all ready for the meal.

Roused by the struggle, spiders, far and near,
Nice large fat spiders, ready for good cheer;
Crawl down the rocks, approach from every cleft,
Stinging poor Pefularties right and left.

Far up the cliff upon a rocky ledge,
A monkey swings a heavy club-like sledge,
Daring poor Pefularties to climb up.
Poor Pefularties! Billy goat—poor pup!

How he got out of this sad scrape, I don't know.
Escape he did, I'm sure of that, yes, just so.
In old York State he suddenly appeared
In broad slouch hat, blue tie, and small red beard;
High boots, both spurred, with eyes of sickly green,
The lop-eared stranger comes upon the scene.

His neighbours dubbed him this, a pack of rude Dutch,
Because his slouch hat made his ears protrude much.
And as the lop-eared stranger he is famous
Throughout the land; West, North, South, East; Oremus.

He met the sweetest girl in town.
This lop-eared beast, this pimpled clown.
          And by his wit,
          He made a hit.
The girl's only brother, suspecting some danger,
Advised her to shake off this gay lop-eared stranger.
She answered him thus:
          "Pray don't make a fuss;
          My Willy I'll stick to;
          I'll get him to lick you.
          He'll smash you to grease,
          So leave us in peace."

CANTO 3

The wedding day came without delay;
The Devil, though lame, had all his way,
          Full sway, full sway;
          All day, all day!

The bride was dressed in spotless white.
She started out in glad delight;
She reached the church; there stood the groom.
Five minutes more, she met her doom.
          For weal or woe.
No weal! No, no!

Out in the graveyard flowers bloom
Close to the shade of her father's tomb.
The wind swept by with a dismal cry;
The raven croaked in a tree close by;
The bell now tolled with a doleful knell,
Just like the howl of a soul in hell.

Inside the church the pledge is given;
The fatal nail, forever driven.
The groom bent close to the priest and said,
"I'll pay your fee next week instead;
I've got on my other pants to-day "
And then he led the bride away.

A cold damp thrill seemed to freeze the will
Of all the wedding guests, how still!
All mockery! It bodes of ill.
No Godspeed here: Oh no! all chill.

Hark! Hark! hear the bell peal; toll after toll,
Like the dismal howl of a long-lost soul.
Choirs of vampire bats raise a cry,
Carrion crows sing a sweet lullaby.

CANTO 4

A month has passed, oh, frightful change!
The bright red beard has got the mange.
New pimples sprout both here and there;
The lop-eared stranger has less hair.
Is he a hero? What d'yer think?
His ranch out west is on the blink.
The truth, alas! has now come out,
He stands unmasked, this pimpled lout.
He never owned a ranch, forsooth,
Come close; I'll tell you all the truth.
          List, list!
          Hist, hist!
In spite of his slouch hat, his pistol, his dirk,
A second-class house-painter quite out of work
          There stands revealed,
          Quite, quite unsealed,
The red-whiskered hero now fallen to zero.

Ah, never a cowboy at all,
His pride had a terrible fall;
Only a painter—the rat,
Not a first-class one at that.

There was some talk of Doctor Tar,
Also his partner, Feather;
But all grew calm, without a jar,
And now came pleasant weather.

The pleasant weather lasted short.
The helpless victim found she'd bought
A leech. A sneak. In fact—she's caught,
Trapped by a grasping, pimpled wart.

This pimpled wart wasted
His wife's private income.
And soon they all tasted
The fruits of a gin bum.
          This whisky bum,
          This frisky bum.
          Putrid offenses.
          My! such pretenses!
Out all the night, shattered and nervous,
This his excuse, early Church service.
Oh, vile double life. Oh, lop-sided pill!
His poor abused wife, she sticks to him still.

Year followed year—the same old story,
More highly coloured, now red and gory.
This second-class painter, this meek Simon Peter
Has now become changed to a first-class wife beater.
When all of a sudden, he opium adds
To the list of his charms, and a few other fads.
          Fads grimy! Eyes slimy.

CANTO 5

The curtain rises on the final act,
The young mechanic with his brain all cracked.
Last scene of all, this contemptible smug louse,
Finds himself nearing the doors of the bughouse.

Ring out, ye bell, ring out and tell
What doom on Pefularties fell.

The lop-eared stranger sits alone
Munching away at a marrow bone.
Holding it firm in his strong right hand,
Chewing away to beat the brass band.
          This pimpled shrimp,
          This shrimpled pimp,
His left hand grasps his friend the pencil.
Poor lop-eared Pefularties, dense Bill!
He digs and he digs and he digs at one ear—
There certainly must be some wheels out of gear.
He listens, he sees—strange sights, such queer fleas.
          He fights them,
          He bites them,
He swallows them whole.
          He clips them,
          He nips them,
Poor suffering soul.

One little Devil, tattered and twisted,
Quickly stepped forward; gently insisted
Poor Pefularties should drink of his chalice.
Down with one gulp pours this nectar of malice.

The lop-eared stranger sees the pit once more.
Most awful phantoms all around him claw.
          Old times come back;
          He's on the rack.

Motheaten apes in a hollow square
Chatter and grin with ecstatic stare.
Six Gila monsters, withered and bent,
Sputter and snort to their heart's content.
Vinegerones with squeaks of glee
Climb down the cliff and join the spree.

See the spiders dance and flirt,
See the alligator squirt
Smoke and brimstone from his teeth!
See the fiery, white-hot wreath,
Closing tight about his head
On the rack, all bleeding red—
Mockery of a dying bed!
One gasp more—the man is dead.
That stiffened form—that sightless stare!
The soul has fled—but where? Oh, where?

Again the raven gave a croak,
"I'll hide you now beneath my cloak."

But stop! Don't judge! We cannot tell.
Hope for the best that all is well.

Where is his soul? We cannot tell.
We hope—but oh! That dreadful bell!

Again the raven croaked and said,
"This is a merry dying bed.
Croak, croak! Oh hell!
Croak, croak! Farewell."

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