He hears a sizzlin’ in the suds
And finds the peelin’s, strange to say,
Are all fermentin’ where they lay.
Now Sour-face Murphy in the door
Was standin’. And the face he wore
Convinced the first assistant cook
That Murphy soured ’em with his look.
And when he had the parin’s drained
A quart of Irish booze remained.
The bull cook tells the tale to Paul
And Paul takes Murphy off the haul
And gives him, very willingly,
A job as camp distillery.
At last, a hundred million in,
’Twas time for drivin’ to begin.
We broke our rollways in a rush
And started through the rain and slush
To drive the hundred million down
Until we reached some sawmill town.
We didn’t know the river’s name,
Nor where to someone’s mill it came,
But figured that, without a doubt,
To some good town ’twould fetch us out
If we observed the usual plan
And drove the way the current ran.
Well, after we had driven for
At least two weeks, and maybe more,
We come upon a pyramid
That looked just like our forty did.
