My Conscience

Sometimes my Conscience says, says he,
"Don't you know me? "
And I, says I, skeered through and through,
"Of course I do.
You air a nice chap ever' way,
I'm here to say!
You make me cry -- you make me pray,
And all them good things thataway --
That is, at _night_. Where do you stay
Durin' the day? "

And then my Conscience says, onc't more,
"You know me -- shore? "
"Oh, yes," says I, a-trimblin' faint,
"You're jes' a saint!
Your ways is all so holy-right,
I love you better ever' night
You come around, -- tel' plum daylight,
When you air out o' sight! "

And then my Conscience sort o' grits
His teeth, and spits
On his two hands and grabs, of course,
Some old remorse,
And beats me with the big butt-end
O' _that_ thing -- tel my clostest friend
'Ud hardly know me. "Now," says he,
"Be keerful as you'd orto be
And _allus_ think o' me! "