Upon each foot of each of them
When we had pancakes each A.M.
They’d skate around the stove lids for
An hour or so, or maybe more,
And grease ’em for him. But one day
Old Pink-eye Martin (anyway
He couldn’t see so very good),
Old Pink-eye he misunderstood
Which was the bakin’-powder can
And in the dough eight fingers ran
Of powder, blastin’-powder black—
Those flunkeys never did come back.
They touched a cake, a flash, and poof!
Went Sam and Tommie through the roof.
We hunted for a month or so
But never found ’em—that, you know,
It was the year of the blue snow.
We put one hundred million feet
On skids that winter. Hard to beat,
You say it was? It was some crew.
We took it off one forty, too.
A hundred million feet we skid—
That forty was a pyramid;
It runs up skyward to a peak—
To see the top would take a week.
The top of it, it seems to me,
