Abe Martin!— dad-burn his old picture!
P'tends he's a Brown County fixture —
A kind of a comical mixture
Of hoss-sense and no sense at all!
His mouth, like his pipe,‘ s allus goin’,
And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin’,
And what he do n't know ai n't wuth knowin’ —
From Genesis clean to baseball!
The artist, Kin Hubbard,‘ s so keerless
He draws Abe most eyeless and earless,
But he's never yet pictured him cheerless
Er with fun‘ at he tries to conceal,—
Whuther onto the fence er clean over
A-rootin’ up ragweed er clover,
Skeert stiff at some “Rambler” er “Rover”
Er newfangled automobeel!
It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in;
And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns in
The old man hisse'f wades his rounds in
As ca'm and serene, mighty nigh
As the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottled
Milch cow, er the old rooster wattled
Like the mumps had him‘ most so well throttled
That it was a pleasure to die.
But best of‘ em all's the fool-breaks‘ at
Abe do n't see at all, and yit makes‘ at
Both me and you lays back and shakes at
His comic, miraculous cracks
Which makes him — clean back of the power
Of genius itse'f in its flower —
This Notable Man of the Hour,
Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts.