_Oh, Scissors, let us cut up!_
_Would Gillette me?_
* * * * *
“I’ve come to the end of my rope,” our hero cried as he threw his cigar
away.
* * * * *
He mixed his beans with honey,
He’d done it all his life.
’Twas not because he liked the taste,
But it held them on his knife.
* * * * *