Back, far back in that backwood’s school
Of Lincoln, Grant and the great we prize
We boys would fight, but we had one rule--
You must fight a boy of your size.
Or white boy or brown, aye, Boer no doubt,
Whatever the quarrel, whatever the prize
You must stand up fair and so fight it out
With a boy somewhat your size.
But a big boy spoiled so for fights, he did,
He lied most diplomatic-like-lies
And he fought such fights--ye gods forbid--
But never a boy of his size.
He skinned and he tanned, kept hide, kept hair,
Now I am speaking figure-wise--
But he didn’t care who and he didn’t care where
Just so he was under size.
Then the big boy cried, “A big chief am I,
I was born to bang and to civilize,
And yet sometimes I, in my pride I sigh
For something about my size.”
Then the good Schoolmaster he reached a hand
And across his knee he did flop crosswise
That bully, and raise in his good right hand
A board of considerable size.
And the good Schoolmaster he smote that chief,
He smote both hips and he smote both thighs;
And he said as he smote, “It is my belief
This board is about your size.”
* * * * *
Beware the bully, of his words beware,
His triangular lips are a nest of lies,
For he never did dare and he never will dare,
To bang a boy of his size.