You missuble, speckled critter, you. What'n thunder 're squawking' about? Does anything hurt you bad? Or do you squawk That way in Ginny, where you come from, And so squawks now from educational prejudice? What'n mischief do you pull your homely head Out'n from under your wing and squawk for? What's under your wing to make you squawk, You speckled swine of a berd! Some think offensive, I reckon, elsewise You'd keep it there, for it looks better hid. What do you get on the fence and squawk for? Do you see anythink alarmink, you white-gilled, Speckle-feather, squawking fool? How do you s'pose a feller can read or rite, Or sleep, or live, yon discordant, old, busted, Brass, French horn, with all keys open And the mouth-piece cracked!

I wish I could pizen you, you everlastin', perpetual squawking machine I

What're you thinking about? - home? -

You rascally epitome of a Ginny war-gong,

A Congo tum-tum and conch-shell,

And down-east Tillage brass band!

Dry up ( you speckled parody of a machine shop!

Do you think that's music, you outrageous vocal atrocity!

You boiler maker's exacerbated echo!

You squawking abstract of Pandemonium,

Do you think a feller can afford to furnish boot-jacks,

And so forth, to chunk you with daily, dog you!

May-be you think its funny, you speckled pagan of African extraction!

Is your squawking sass? or are you feard of me, say!

You brazen-throated, sheet-iron-lunged culmination

Of foul creation? Here's my blackin' brush at you!

K. N. Pepper.