WES PERKINS

I've read of Bob Burdett,

And Billin's, Twain and Bret

And the whole endurin’ set

Of funny men, I guess;

But I never yit have found,

No matter how renowned,

A wit that's ever downed

Our Perkins, boys call Wes.

You sildom ketch him lyin’;

Not much for speechifyin’;

And he‘ pears just half-way tryin’

When he does git off his wit:

But dogged if th'aint blame'd few

‘ Ll probe you through and through,

As Wes is sure to do,

For he allus makes a hit.

He's a humble sort of feller

With an eye as soft and meller

As an apple golden yeller

In the mild September sun:

Kinder quare and unconcerned,

Like he did n't kere a derned,

But many a feller's learned

That Wes is in for fun.

Cheap wits do n't make no noise

‘ Bout Wes,‘ cause he destroys

Their wisdom, which annoys

The humorist, more or less.

Unless your jokes‘ ll fit

You'd best reserve your wit,

And entirely omit,

‘ Fore Perkins, boys call Wes.