It don't seem hardly right, John,
When both my hands was full,
To stump me to a fight, John,--
Your cousin, tu, John Bull!
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
We know it now," sez he,
"The lion's paw is all the law,
Accordin' to J.B.,
Thet's fit for you an' me!"
Blood ain't so cool as ink, John:
It's likely you'd ha' wrote,
An' stopped a spell to think, John,
_Arter_ they'd cut your throat?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
He'd skurce ha' stopped," sez he,
"To mind his p-s an' q-s, ef thet weasan'
Hed b'longed to ole J.B.,
Instid o' you an' me!"
Ef _I_ turned mad dogs loose, John,
On _your_ front-parlor stairs,
Would it jest meet your views, John,
To wait an' sue their heirs?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
I on'y guess," sez he,
"Thet, ef Vattel on _his_ toes fell,
'T would kind o' rile J.B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"
Who made the law thet hurts, John,
_Heads I win,--ditto, tails?_
"_J.B._" was on his shirts, John,
Onless my memory fails.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
(I'm good at thet,)" sez he,
"Thet sauce for goose ain't _jest_ the juice
For ganders with J.B.,
No more than you or me!"
When your rights was our wrongs, John,
You didn't stop for fuss,--
Britanny's trident-prongs, John,
Was good 'nough law for us.
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