I've read of Bob Burdett,
And Billin's, Twain and Bret
And the whole endurin’ set
Of funny men, I guess;
But I never yit have found,
No matter how renowned,
A wit that's ever downed
Our Perkins, boys call Wes.
You sildom ketch him lyin’;
Not much for speechifyin’;
And he‘ pears just half-way tryin’
When he does git off his wit:
But dogged if th'aint blame'd few
‘ Ll probe you through and through,
As Wes is sure to do,
For he allus makes a hit.
He's a humble sort of feller
With an eye as soft and meller
As an apple golden yeller
In the mild September sun:
Kinder quare and unconcerned,
Like he did n't kere a derned,
But many a feller's learned
That Wes is in for fun.
Cheap wits do n't make no noise
‘ Bout Wes,‘ cause he destroys
Their wisdom, which annoys
The humorist, more or less.
Unless your jokes‘ ll fit
You'd best reserve your wit,
And entirely omit,
‘ Fore Perkins, boys call Wes.