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Show DON'T GET SORE. (By Sl'GAR BEET PETE). :o: Afler a day of workin' in the Lot and slitherin' sun. jion't you hate to meet a fellar just home from fish in' some? He'll tell you about the mountains, the cool and shady nooks. And the fish that he's been catchin' in sparklin' little brooks; About the times he's had while fishin', the dirty son-of-a-gun. And you've had to keep a "plugg'n' " 'neath a hot and burnin' sun. Don't it make you sore? He'll tell you about the flapjacks cooked over an open fire, j Smokin' pota of coffee in which a hat -pin wouldn't mire, j Fish and bacon cookin', you can almost smell the stuff, j And the good things He's been eatin' while he was "in the rough." ' He'll "gall you to pieces" with his tales of campin' life Make you feel like takin' out his gizzard with a crooked bowie knife. Don't it make you sore? Now, when I go a fishin', I never tell a soul, About the "speckled beauties" I have caught, or describe my favorite hole, Nor the coffee and the flapjacks and all that kind of guff 'Cause I don't want to make you home-sick for the stuff. Rut I'd like to go a fishin' and laze along a stream, And hunt me out a shady nook where I could sit and dream. Don't get sore. |