Oh, G.B.S., oh, G.B.S.,
You lousy son of a bitch,
You lift your yawp across the world
Like a bullfrog in a ditch.

I would that by foliage which
Your scholarly phizz thatches
Tied to a smoking stake you were
By a tribe of wild Apaches

You could deride them in that style
Of which you're so enamored,
While someone with a tomahawk
Your lordly cranium hammered.

And several thousand dancing braves,
The more the merrier,
Were sticking Spanish Daggers in
Your antequate posterior.