But I, When I Undress Me Each

A Mighty Good Sausage Stuffer Was Spoiled When The Man Became A Poet.

What Smells So? Has Somebody Been Burning A Rag, Or Is There A Dead Mule In The Back Yard? No, The Man Is Smoking A Five-cent Cigar.

Used To Think That Luck Wuz Luck And Nuthin' Else But Luck-- It Made No Diff'rence How Or When Or Where Or Why It Struck; But Sev'ral Years Ago I Changt My Mind, An' Now Proclaim That Luck's A Kind Uv Science--same As Any Other Game.

Wynken, Blynken, And Nod One Night Sailed Off In A Wooden Shoe, - Sailed On A River Of Crystal Light Into A Sea Of Dew.

Father Calls Me William, Sister Calls Me Will, Mother Calls Me Willie, But The Fellows Call Me Bill!.