THE hangman snorted, rubbered a twist
          With his neck as he sat on the porch,
Then opened, clinched his knotted fist,
          By the light of the dismal torch—
                   The dismal torch.

His trade up the spout, yanked to pieces,
          The holiday season drew near,
He thought of those bright little nieces,
          Sweet Meta and Lulu dear—
                   So very dear.

He wanted to give each a nice gift,
          But didn't know how to fix it.
He got down his bitters and rice mift,
          And vigorously did mix it—
                   Did mix it.

He sighed as he thought with emotion—
          His craft both artistic and rare,
Now spoiled by that new-fangled notion,
          The mighty electrical chair—
                   Nasty chair.

He sipped at the grog till it cheered him,
          Dispersing his arrows and slings.
He drank more and more till it queered him,
          And now he sees very tart things—
                   Such queer things.

Long ropes, nooses, cross-beams and traps,
          Mementos of sweet bye and byes
Flit past. Pinioned arms and black caps.
          Great hooky, those dangling guys—
                   Dangling guys.

With elbows well in and tongues out,
          The phantoms flit gaily along,
With voices deep, facing about,
I        ntoning this swaggering song—
                   Swaggering song.

"My worthy friend, hanging is nice,
          Far better than black chicken pox.
So neat, gentle, soothing, precise,
          Jack Ketch, with a rope in a box—
                   Jack in a box.

"Hold on to your gear, hangman dear,
          You've raked up the tin in your time.
Don't look through your hat at your ear,
          You've filled up your purse mixing lime—
                   Punishing crime."

The hangman awoke with a whoop,
          Then smiled, and observed "I'll be rammed,
My savings are not on the droop,
          My pocketbook fatly is crammed—
                   Fatly is jammed.

"Dear Lulu shall have a wax doll,
          Dressed up like a queen, robes of plush.
Sweet Meta shall have a green poll
          In a platinum cage, fed on mush—
                   Fed on mush.

"Good luck to those dangling guys.
          They've changed all the pith of my life
To sweetmeats and all kinds of pies,
          Instead of the blue devil strife—
                   Blue devil strife.

"Farewell to blue black and black blue,
          Dangling guys, sweetmeats, pies
Are mine, never more dismal stew.
          Hurrah for the dangling guys—
                   Dangling guys."

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