MAX and Maurice! I grow sick, | |
| When I think on your last trick. | |
| Why must these two scalawags | |
| Cut those gashes in the bags? | |
| See! the farmer on his back | 5 |
| Carries corn off in a sack. | |
| Scarce has he begun to travel, | |
| When the corn runs out like gravel. | |
| All at once he stops and cries: | |
| “Darn it! I see where it lies!” | 10 |
| Ha! with what delighted eyes | |
| Max and Maurice he espies. | |
| Rabs! he opens wide his sack, | |
| Shoves the rogues in—Hukepack! | |
| It grows warm with Max and Maurice, | 15 |
| For to mill the farmer hurries, | |
| “Master miller! Hallo, man! | |
| Grind me that as quick as you can!” | |
| “In with ’em!” Each wretched flopper | |
| Headlong goes into the hopper. | 20 |
| As the farmer turns his back, he | |
| Hears the mill go “creaky! cracky!” | |
| Here you see the bits post mortem, | |
| Just as Fate was pleased to sort ’em. | |
| Master Miller’s ducks with speed | 25 |
| Gobbled up the coarse-grained feed. | |
| |
