Fight a Boy of Your Size

Back, far back in that backwood’s school Of Lincoln, Grant and the great we prize We boys would fight, but we had one rule— You must fight a boy of your size.

Or white boy or brown, aye, Boer no doubt, Whatever the quarrel, whatever the prize You must stand up fair and so fight it out With a boy somewhat your size.

But a big boy spoiled so for fights, he did, He lied most diplomatic-like-lies And he fought such fights—ye gods forbid— But never a boy of his size.

He skinned and he tanned, kept hide, kept hair, Now I am speaking figure-wise— But he didn’t care who and he didn’t care where Just so he was under size.

Then the big boy cried, “A big chief am I, I was born to bang and to civilize, And yet sometimes I, in my pride I sigh For something about my size.”

Then the good Schoolmaster he reached a hand And across his knee he did flop crosswise That bully, and raise in his good right hand A board of considerable size.

And the good Schoolmaster he smote that chief, He smote both hips and he smote both thighs; And he said as he smote, “It is my belief This board is about your size.”

Beware the bully, of his words beware, His triangular lips are a nest of lies, For he never did dare and he never will dare, To bang a boy of his size.