Abe Martin
Abe Martin!—dad-burn his old picture!
P’tends he’s a Brown County fixture—
A kind of a comical mixture
Of hoss-sense and no sense at all!
His mouth, like his pipe, ’s allus goin’,
And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin’,
And what he don’t know ain’t wuth knowin’—
From Genesis clean to baseball!
The artist, Kin Hubbard, ’s so keerless
He draws Abe most eyeless and earless,
But he’s never yet pictured him cheerless
Er with fun ‘at he tries to conceal,—
Whuther onto the fence er clean over
A-rootin’ up ragweed er clover,
Skeert stiff at some “Rambler” er “Rover”
Er newfangled automobeel!
It’s a purty steep climate old Brown’s in;
And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns in
The old man hisse’f wades his rounds in
As ca’m and serene, mighty nigh
As the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottled
Milch cow, er the old rooster wattled
Like the mumps had him ’most so well throttled
That it was a pleasure to die.
But best of ’em all’s the fool-breaks ‘at
Abe don’t see at all, and yit makes ‘at
Both me and you lays back and shakes at
His comic, miraculous cracks
Which makes him—clean back of the power
Of genius itse’f in its flower—
This Notable Man of the Hour,
Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts.