Classic Poem

You wouldn't suppose a man like me, a hayseed sort er chap,
Who hain't no special intellec' nor brains beneath his cap;
You wouldn't suppose I'd hev a son who'd be a genyus, hey?
A man who'd climb the height er fame and then set down an' stay.

I've allus been a plain ol' duff, an' Bill he was my son;
I s'posed he'd do the kind of work thet I hed allus done;
Chop cord-wood, dig pertaters, hoe corn, an hol' the plough,
An' settle down an' chew his cud contented as a cow.

But Bill he warn't that kind er stuff, for, born for mighty things,
He vowed that he'd hol' up his head with intellectchul kings;
An' now he's gone an' done it; he's a man of great renown,
An' Grassvale now has give the worl' a great man from the town.

He's gone off to the city; everybody knows him there,
An' he stan's there for ten hours a day, right in the public square:
An' he's a big policeman there, an' stan's there in the street,
An' straightens out the tangle w'en the teams an' street-cars meet.

An' everybody's scat of him. He jest hol's up his hand,
An' the hummin' slam-bang 'lectric car will come right to a stand;
The cars an' teams an' kerridges an' hacks will all stan' still,—
For ev'ry blessed soul of 'em is scat to death of Bill.

An he's the boss of all the street, he stan's there in the swim,
An' no one dares to move until they git permish of him.
He waves his hand—the teams go on—he lifts it, an' they stop—
To think a humble boy like Bill should climb so near the top.

An' this ere is my son, my boy. I never dreamed I'd be
The father of a genyus so tremendous high as he;
But in this lan' the poorest lad may make himself a name,
An' a poor humble kid, like Bill, may climb the heights er fame.