Listen, dear rooters, and you shall hear
Of the ride of a modern Paul Revere.
The Paul Revere of "seventy-five"
Rode like a fiend and won in a drive.
The Paul Revere whose praises I sing
Is Arthur Raymond, the spitball king.
No plunging charger, no Arab steed,
Loans to Raymond its wondrous speed,
No dainty thoroughbred, sleek of side,
Plays a part in our Raymond's ride.
Just a lumbering wagon, creaking and shaking
Serves for the wonderful ride he's taking.
And it hustles him over hollow and hill,
Drawn by a good old horse named WILL.
It bumps like blazes and swerves like sin
When it nears a bar or passes an inn;
It jerks like the tail of a crazy kite
When a brewery looms on the left or right.
When it nears The Coop or The Rooters' Rest
It bucks as a mustang bucks out West.
But, calmly refusing to get a jag on,
Raymond clings to that water wagon.
* * *
To Revere's great feat you may point with pride,
But Raymond is riding a greater ride.
 This is only a spring poem.
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