Wuy, Mother, it surely is time
That Timothy here was transplanted]
To a sheety and blankety clime,

Where his presence is, more or less, wanted.

I admit he’s an angel, of course,

But I wish that your rules were more drastic ;
I object, as a fatherly horse,

To a bit of uncleanly elastic.

He has fashioned and fixed at my ears
Ridiculous papery blinkers,

And I’m sure my condition appears
Sufficiently foolish to thinkers.

As another inducement, I urge
That his driving’s distinctly immoral,
All affectionate feeling I merge
When he thumps on my head with his coral.