TO MY DRUMMING CHUM.

By One of the Afflicted.

O MY chum!

Hush your drum;

And at ease

Leave me, please.

I shall fly,

I shall die,

Go to grub,

Or the Hub.

Spare my ears,

Cease my fears;

Draw it mild,

For I am growing wild.

You're insane,

It is plain,

O my chum!

For you drum

On the floor,

On the door,

On the stove,

Walls above,

On my chair, -

Everywhere.

"So's a hen,"

You mildly answer then.

This is rot.

You cannot

Get the flam.

You said damn.

And I swear

I can't bear

Any more

Such a bore.

Darn the fuss!

Hear me cuss.

"Right you are,"

Comes over your cigar.

That's enough, -

No more guff, -

You just trot!

Though it's not,

As they say,

A cold day,

You'll get left,

Or bereft

Of your chum.

There, - keep mum!

'Lection o'er,

Then no more

Shall this pest

My quiet room infest.