B.
To square it's left to _me_!"
Blood ain't so cool as ink, JOHN;
Big words are easy wrote;
The "coons"--well, you don't think, JOHN,
I'll let 'em cut my throat.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
Ghost-dance must stop," sez he.
"Suppose the 'braves' and black ex-slaves
Hed b'longed to ole J.B.
Insted of unto me?"
Ten art'cles in your _Times_, JOHN,
Hev giv me good advice.
I mind th' old Slavery crimes, JOHN.
I don't need tellin' twice.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
I only guess," sez he,
"Seven million blacks on his folks' backs
Would kind o' rile J.B.
Ez much ez it riles me!"
The Red Man,--well, I s'pose, JOHN,
We'll hev to wipe _him_ aout.
Sech pizonous trash ez those, JOHN,
The world kin do without.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
Injuns must go," sez he.
"COOPER's Red Man won't fit our plan,
Though he once witched J.B.
As once he fetched e'en _me_!"
The Black Man! Ah, that's wuss, JOHN.
The chaps wuz right, ay _joost_,
Who said the Slavery cuss, JOHN,
Wud yet come home to roost.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
The problem set," sez he,
"By that derned Nig.
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