f kings. As for thee, dark-eyed Egyptian, Glorious Sorceress of the Nile, Light the path to Stygian horrors With the glories of thy smiles. Give to Caesar Crowns and Arches, Let his brow the Laurel twine-- I could scorn the Senate's triumph, Triumphing in love like thine. I am dying, Egypt, dying I Hard I the insulting foeman's cry, They are coming!
quick! my falchion!! Let me front them ere I die. Ah!
no more amid the battle, Shall my heart exulting swell-- Iris and Osiris guard thee-- Cleopatra!
Go ahead, Jack!
Give us some more, old fellow!
And he generally did, much to everybody's satisfaction.
We all loved Jack, the Poet of our mess.
He sleeps, his battles o'er, in Hollywood.
The Singing man generally put in towards the last and sung us to bed. He was generally a diminutive man, with a sweet voice and a sweetheart at home.
His songs had in them rosy lips, blue eyes, golden hair, pearly teeth, and all that sort of thing.
Of course he w