Home from college came the stripling, calm and cool and debonair,
With a weird array of raiment and a wondrous wealth of hair,
With a lazy love of languor and a healthy hate of work
And a cigarette devotion that would shame the turbaned Turk.
And he called his father "Guv'nor," with a cheek serene and rude,
While that raging, wrathful rustic calld his son a "blasted dude."
And in dark and direful language muttered threats of coming harm
To the "idle, shif'less critter" from his father's good right arm.

And the trouble reached a climax on the lawn behind the shed,—
"Now, I'm gon' ter lick yer, sonny," so the sturdy parent said,
"And I'll knock the college nonsense from your noddle, mighty quick!"—
Then he lit upon that chappy like a wagon-load of brick.
But the youth serenely murmured, as he gripped his angry dad,
"You're a clever rusher, Guv'nor, but you tackle very bad";
And he rushed him through the center and he tripped him for a fall,
And he scored a goal and touchdown with his papa as the ball.