From the Rock Island Argus, April, 15, 1914. By Henry Howland.
Sim Watkins was a chap who used to get his feelin’s hurt
Most every time he turned around; he thought folks done him dirt
If they’d neglect to run across the street to shake his hand;
He used to have a notion that folks set around and planned
To slight him everywhere he went; most everything you’d say
He’d twist till it would seem a slur at him, some way.
At parties when the girls would get alone and giggle, Sim
Was always sure to think that they were makin’ fun of him;
At meetin’ when the preacher threw out hints, as preachers do,
Sim always took ‘em to himself, kept puttin’ on the shoe;
If folks would count the change he’d give it made him mad, you see
He thought by that they had their doubts about his honesty.
He’s dead and gone, he didn’t leave a great deal when he went.
In lookin’ high and low for slights his time was mostly spent.
And I suppose, if he’s above, where people get their wings,
And draw the tickets for the harps and golden crowns and things,
He’s settin’ back and thinkin’ that the happy angels there
Are laughin’ at the way he looks in what he has to wear.