But it grew up like a mushroom, continues
But one of our neighbors invented a trick
For raking in shekels and getting rich quick.
He didn’t make moonshine, he didn’t purloin,
He found a new method of obtaining the
coin.
This neighbor, whose cognomen we will omit
Had not much wealth but plenty of wit.
He dwelt alongside a public highway,
Where hundreds of autos passed by every
day.
A gurgling brook, near his place of abode,
Sang songs for the tourists, who passed on
the road. A mud hole, whose bottom was red, sticky
clay,
Stood near the center of the auto highway.
Each auto that passed, would stick in the
mud
And come to a halt with a thump and a
thud.
This neighbor, who dwelt alongside of the
stream
Possessed an old wagon and ancient horse
team.
With his “Dobbins”, he carted a water
supply,
To keep this old mud hole from getting too
dry.
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He’d labor all night by the light of the stars,
To keep the old mud hole in needed repairs.
But for what reason, perhaps you ask,
Should he assign himself to such a task.
Because this mud hole, or rather a slough
Was the chief source of this man’s revenue.
The mud hole is kept in constant repair,
And made a good trap for a joyriding car.
Whenever a tourist appeared on the scene,
He’d surely plunk in where others had been.
Our hero would sit on the top of the stile,
The tourist would utter “cuss words“ for
awhile.
Then our hero would gently slide down from
his perch,
As long-faced as though he were going to
church.
He’d say, “my dear man, it makes me feel
sad,
To see that your auto is in so bad,
I wish to tender some wholesome advice,
And we’ll have your auto all right in a trice.
Just hitch this chain to your old lizzie’s
snout,
I and the dobbins will soon have you out.
You’ll find me one of the best-hearted men,
For this valued service, I’ll tax you a ten.”
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