  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 didn't kere a derned, But many a feller's learned That Wes is in for fun. Cheap wits don'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. |
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