By E.G. Murphy (Dryblower)
He lay in the hospital, pallid and weak,
The wreck of a once healthy man;
His breathing was wheezy, his voice was a squeak,
As his story of woe he began.
“Twas Danny O’Hara,” he murmured in pain,
“Who told me his camel was bad,
A bulky young bull, with the strength of a crane,
But a temperament quiet and sad.
“The camel was sick, up at Cassidy’s Hill,
And he’d think me an angel from heaven
If I’d help him to give it a “pick- me- up” pill,
To keep it from “throwing a seven”.
A pipe was precurred, three feet of bamboo,
Then Danny, myself and the pill,
Went bravely this medical office to do
For the patient at Cassidy’s Hill.
“When the pill’s in the pipe, and the pipe’s in his jaws,
Which I’ll open”, O’hara observed,
“You place the free end of the blow- pipe in yours,
And puff when his gullet’s uncurved,
“I’d blow it myself, but me bellows are weak,
And I haven’t the strength in my lungs,
Since I had that bad accident up at The Peak,
My puffing machinery’s bung.
“The pill is composed”, he further explained,
Of axle-grease, sulphur and tar;
And piquant and suitable flavour is gained
By a dip in the kerosene jar.
“To aid his digestion there’s gravel and shot,
And I’ve seasoned it strongly with snuff;
And I want in his system to scatter the lot,
So take a deep breath and then puff.”
With the pipe to my lips a long breath I drew,
Till my diaphragm threatened to burst,
Then, bang! Down my gullet the flaming pill flew!
For the blithering camel blew first!
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