GERMS. 51 



I say this to you now because 

 In all these parts they have made laws 

 That don't allow men who are free 

 To chew and spit promiscuously; 

 And they have nailed up everywhere 

 These words that tell us to beware 

 Of laws passed by each Far West State, 

 Do not, do not expectorate. 



The tourist comes out from the East, 

 He brings his lungs or one at least- 

 He leans against a poplar tree, 

 He coughs, and coughs so wearily, 

 He chokes, and gasps, prepares to spit, 

 When with these words his ear is hit 

 "See here, friend 'lunger,' don't you see 

 That sign tacked there upon that tree?" 



"Can you not read the words so plain? 

 You better not cough here again; 

 We don't allow in this 'ere town 

 No man, though white, or black, or brown, 

 To cough and throw himself around 

 In little chunks upon the ground; 

 I'm Marshal here, and let me state, 

 You better not expectorate." 



"My God, where can I go!" he cries, 



This tourist man with hectic eyes, 

 "To death I will myself resign! 



All through your town I saw your sign, 



And crawled out here, and thought perhaps 



I could spit once 'ere I collapse; 



But here it is, as sure as fate 



'Do not, do not expectorate.' " 



A smothered cough, a groan, and then 

 (Excuse me, we are all neat men, 

 The word to use it rhymes with sob) 

 From the poor tourist falls a . 



