So fire away, old grind, you have the coldest cheek
Of any flunk in college. You 're the boss snide - a tart piece on a tare,
And I will sit on you when next you try
To squirt in my elective, - that you call the soft.
When you have got it cold, and think'st to make a rush,
I 'll get the bulge on you, - the dead wood,
And you shall slump and dead in spite of crib and cram, -
The section shall wood up, and you 'll be tried.
What growl you ? Cut it short ? Well, I should smile.
Come, cut, you scrub, light out, walk off upon your ear,
Give us a rest, or I will fire you out.
You put on too much dog, too many lugs;
Come, hit her up, my Lippi, make a brace,
Or you 'll get scooped, for such a boom as this
I ne'er was gagged by. You are too flash by half.
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