I'm old Rapaire from Idaho's shore
In the good old golden days.
They call me a bum and librarian, too
But what care I for praise?
I wander around Pocatello town
Just like a roving sign,
And the people all say "There goes Rapaire
On the way to ninety-nine.

Cho: In the days of old, in the days of old
How often I repine
For the days of old when we wanted for gold
On the way to ninety-nine.

There was Texas Still, I knew her well,
A woman that was fond of tricks.
At reshelving books she was always there
And heavy in the stacks.
She would ante up and fill her cart
And shelve like the whirlwind kind
But in the PS stacks Stilly lost her breath
On the way to ninety-nine.

There was Sandy Amos, a gold ol' boy
Who was always getting tight.
And every time that he got full
He went a-hunting a fight.
One night he run up against a knife
On the table where he did dine
And over Amos they held a wake
On the way to ninety-nine.

There was poor MMario, the poor old curio
He never would repent.
Her never was known to miss a drink
Or was away his scent.
At length MMario like all the rest
Who never could decline,
In all his bloom was sent to his room
On the way to ninety-nine.

       --Henrica Portia Longview, Stolen Songs and Other Things
         (Portland, OR: Railroading Publishers, 1876), p. 25