ABE MARTIN

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 on to 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.