192 THE FOGY DAYS AND NOW ; 



Preacher folks helt Betsey's skirts ; 

 'Tis tho't some of em tore their shirts. 



Niggers jined in, throwed Betsey chunks, 

 Kase 'twas fore-agreed to go in hunks ; 

 White gals pinned ribbons on their coats, 

 And served them lunch to git their votes. 



And thus it wer old Agaric died, 

 Who had so long the law defied ; 

 A rose smells as sweet by other name. 

 But whiskey will be drunk all the same. 



For Prohibition now sound three cheers, 

 Let defeated Antis close their ears ; 

 Now we'll ride upon the upper decks, 

 " We've got our feet upon their necks. 



Come world, we open now all our doors. 

 Prohibition will fill all our stores ; 

 Come world, Atlanta is now the hub, 

 Strike the tambourine, a rub a dub, dub. 



And the poor imbecile, who had no will, 

 His only grits from prohibition mill ; 

 Poor devil, who couldn't pass a bar. 

 He too. saved by this mighty war. 



Poor old Anti, whar, oh whar now is he? 

 Lets wait two years, then we'll see ; 

 He may be dead, past resurrection. 

 But apt to hitch on another connection. 



Now your Poet feels little sort of sad, 

 For in this victory he no part had ; 

 No part in victory, neither feels defeat. 

 Till he gits short of something good to eat. 



Written the morning after the prohibition victory in Atlanta, Ga. In that election I was 

 neutral. I could not vote for whiskey, on the other hand, I thought the jug business would 

 make matters worse. 



