Behold the wandering wayward Rap
Who bids us kill the fatted calf
By bringing home a load of crap
TO make Mom swoon--but we just laff.
We know his idle, wandering ways,
We've copped his scam for many a week.
And though barefoot he rambles off,
He's just a barefoot boy with cheek.

John Blueballs Whatayear
Greaves of Lass and other poems.
Rochester, New York, 1911