Poem Hunter
Not The Joe I Thought He Was
(25 April 1854 – 3 November 1926 / Ontario)

Not The Joe I Thought He Was

I uster think that Joe was rough,

An rather fond uv a row.
You remember the man with the bushy hair,
An the big black eyes with the angry flare,

Under a low'ring brow ?
Well, I uster think that Joe was a tough ;

But I think quite diff rent now.

For he asked me home one night to tea ;

You bet I was loth to go ;
But away I went fer I did n't like

To ruffle a man like Joe ;
But when we got thar a wonderful change
Kem over the man so rough and strange ;

His voice sank soft an low,
An I kinder thought he warn't the same

Ole chap that I uster know.

Fur a flock of rompin children small

Kem runnin in like bees ;
They clapped their hands with shouts of glee,

And clustered round his knees ;
And then this Joe, this man uv strife,
Reached round and caught his pretty wife,

And kissed her lips and eyes,
And smoothed her hair with gentle hand

Wich giv me a surprise.

He romped with the little kids that night :
They tumbled an pulled his hair :

'N sung them songs to their great delight

Till he wus hoarse as a bear.
So I kunclude you never kin judge
A man by his looks. Why, that 's all fudge.

First look at his inner life,
An see if he 's good to his little kids,

An if he is kind to his wife.

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