  I WISH somebody’d kick me through a fence; I must be gettin’ dotty; I’m so dense I couldn’t see half through an iron gate; Why, any one could string me while you wait; No wonder Morton says I’m shy of sense. A man arrived here yesterday forenoon Who seemed to be a fighter, and as soon As ever I had spotted him I flew And grabbed his satchel and got useful. Say, His clo’s were great, he had on dimun’s, too— I picked him fer a winner right away. It wasn’t tips I thought of, understand: I hoped that mebby I could touch his hand; I brought him pens and ink and things and stood Around to be as useful as I could And let him see I thought that he was grand. I’d like to bump my head against a wall, Because he ain’t a pugilist at all. I’ll bet he never even seen a ring; He’s just an author that is writin’ books: That shows that you can never tell a thing About how great a man is by his looks.
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