Elliott C. Lincoln. Rhymes of a Homesteader, 1920.
Had n’t no use fer an automobile;
Said that the blame thing made him feel
Like somethin’ was crawlin’ right up his back.
Hated the smell of the pesky thing,
Put him straddle a coffin-head,
Why, he could stick till the cinch-ring bust;
Bosses an’ leather a man could trust.
But them durn autos—now he’s heard said
That’s how Jim Whittaker bruk his neck,
That’s the talk that Bill used to make,
Bangin’ his fist in the palm of his hand;
But he took, fer trade on a piece of land,
A second-hand car, an’ a new bull rake.
Now he’s the champeen highway pest
In the West.
Goes honk, honk, as he whizzes by:
Likes to look back, with a maddenin’ grin,
An’ watch, while yer lead team tries to shin
The section fence, four wires high.
Somethin’ ‘ll happen to old Bill yet!