Poetry Archives

Elisabeth imagines I’ve
          A yellow streak
She deems I have no dash and drive,
          Jest dogoned weak.
‘A man should be a man,’ says Liz
          ‘Trade blow for blow.’
Poor kid! What my position is
          She jest don’t know.

She jest don’t know my old man killed,
          Yea, slew and slew.
As steamy blood he sweetly spilled,
          So could I too.
And though no wrath of heart I show
          When I see red,
I fear no S. O. B. but oh
          Myself I dread.

Though fellers reckon me a dope
          And trigger-shy,
’Tain’t nice to dangle on a rope,
          And like Pa die.
So as I belly to the bar
          Meek is my breath . . .
No guts!—Don’t needle me too far,
          Elizabeth!