And I've got up and lit the lamp, and clum
On cheers and trunks and wash-stands and bureaus,
And all such dangerous articles as those,
And biffed at you with brooms, and never come
‘ In two feet of you,— maybe skeered you some,—
But what does that amount to when it throws
A feller out o’ balance, and his nose
Gits barked ag'inst the mantel, while you hum
Fer joy around the room, and churn your head
Ag'inst the ceilin’, and draw back and butt
The plasterin’ loose, and drop — behind the bed,
Where never human-bein’ ever putt
Harm's hand on you, er ever truthful said
He'd choked yer dern infernal wizzen shut!