Stay In Your Own Back Yard

'Tis strange what happens to a guy
When he looks the other way;
It's queer how some things work about
And be he sad or gay.
My wife and I we took a trip,
Were gone about a week;
And while away, strange happenings,
And we're not feeling meek.

We have a neighbor, right nice guy,
Lives over on Ruth Court;
And on inquiry I've had naught
But really good report.
His number there is Thirty-Three,
The same as at our house:
There lies the trouble gentlemen.
Somebody is a louse.

He had a back yard 'bout like ours,
That is, equal in size;
With sticks and stones and this and that,
It wasn't any prize.
Now ours was filled with roses sweet
And a dandy apple tree,
And lovely lilacs too adorned
In sweet simplicity.

My neighbor said to a nice old guy,
"Now Jim, I've a job for you;
Just take your axe and spade and things,
And fix me up like new."
"That yard of mine is a disgrace,
Just give it what it takes;
Just dig and slash 'til you are through.
Get it all for Goodness Sakes".

Old Jim fared forth from his little home,
'Twas early in the morn;
He'd do a job like none before,
Les Gabriel blew his horn.
He saw the number Thirty-Three
And sailed in with a grin.
In the game of life it always seems
Like the other fellow wins.

Yes, you are right; 'Twas in my yard
He tossed his axe and spade.
We've lost something like a Thousand bucks
And he Four Dollars made.
He gaily chopped that apple tree,
Then dug out all the roots;
Then roses, lilacs down the line.
I don't know how to shoot.

He got it all, an industrious cuss,
And happy all the while;
Then heaped the wreckage then and there
In a neat and stately pile.
I'm wrong though, there's one thing he missed
He slashed all that he found,
But our tulip bulbs were scared to death
And hiding in the ground.

'Tis sort o' foolish that I feel.
Now I was good and sore,
I used choice words and thought of some
I'd never used before.
This low moronic nincompoop,
Too dumb for ideas new:
My face is red, for I've been told,
"His name is AUSTIN too."

H. B. Austin