Thiar Ain't No Sense In Gittin' Riled!

One Big Vice In A Man Is Apt To Keep Out A Great Many Smaller Ones.

Which I Wish To Remark-- And My Language Is Plain,-- That For Ways That Are Dark And For Tricks That Are Vain, The Heathen Chinee Is Peculiar.

The Delicate Thought, That Cannot Find Expression, For Ruder Speech Too Fair, That, Like Thy Petals, Trembles In Possession, And Scatters On The Air.

When Folks Find I Ain't Afeard To Speak My Mind On Their Affairs, They Kinder Guess I'm Tellin' The Truth About My Own.

Each Lost Day Has Its Patron Saint!