The Unpardonable Sin

I reckon that ye never knew,
That dandy slugger, Tom Carew.
He had a touch as light an’ free
As that of any honey-bee;
But where it lit there wasn’t much
To jestify another touch.
O, what a Sunday-school it was
To watch him puttin’ up his paws
An’ roominate upon their heft⁠—
Particular his holy left!
Tom was my style⁠—that’s all I say;
Some others may be equal gay.
What’s come of him? Dunno, I’m sure;
He’s dead⁠—which make his fate obscure.
I only started in to clear
One vital p’int in his career,
Which is to say⁠—afore he died
He soiled his erming mighty snide.
Ye see he took to politics
And learnt them statesmen-fellers’ tricks;
Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent,
Just like he was the President;
Went to the Legislater; spoke
Right out agin the British yoke⁠—
But that was right. He let his hair
Grow long to qualify for Mayor,
An’ once or twice he poked his snoot
In Congress like a low galoot!
It had to come⁠—no gent can hope
To wrastle God agin the rope.
Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead,
I s’pose it oughtn’t to be said,
For sech inikities as flow
From politics ain’t fit to know.
But, if you think it’s actin’ white
To tell it⁠—Thomas throwed a fight!