I READ a screed by Brother Fletcher, on how we ought to chew our grub; I
said, “It’s sensible, you betcher! I’ll emulate that thoughtful dub. No
more like some old anaconda, I’ll swallow all my victuals whole; I’ll
eat the sort of things I’m fond o’, but chew them up with heart and
soul.” And now I’m always at the table, I have no time to do my chores;
the horse is starving in the stable, the weeds are growing out o’ doors.
My wife says, “Say, you should be doing some work around this slipshod
place.” I answer her, “I’m busy chewing—canst see the motions of my
face?” I have no time to hoe the taters, I have no time to mow the lawn;
though chewing like ten alligators, I’m still behind, so help me, John!
I chew the water I am drinking, I chew the biscuit and the bun; I’ll
have to hire a boy, I’m thinking, to help me get my chewing done. Some
day they’ll bear me on a stretcher out to the boneyard, where they
plant, and send my teeth to Brother Fletcher, to make a necklace for his
aunt.
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