RAYMOND'S RIDE

Listen, dear rooters, and you shall hear

Of the ride of a modern Paul Revere.

The Paul Revere of “seventy-five”

Rode like a fiend and won in a drive.

The Paul Revere whose praises I sing

Is Arthur Raymond, the spitball king.

No plunging charger, no Arab steed,

Loans to Raymond its wondrous speed,

No dainty thoroughbred, sleek of side,

Plays a part in our Raymond's ride.

Just a lumbering wagon, creaking and shaking

Serves for the wonderful ride he's taking.

And it hustles him over hollow and hill,

Drawn by a good old horse named WILL.

It bumps like blazes and swerves like sin

When it nears a bar or passes an inn;

It jerks like the tail of a crazy kite

When a brewery looms on the left or right.

When it nears The Coop or The Rooters’ Rest

It bucks as a mustang bucks out West.

But, calmly refusing to get a jag on,

Raymond clings to that water wagon.

To Revere's great feat you may point with pride,

But Raymond is riding a greater ride.