To Our Izzy
by George Albert Leddy

There he stand forlorn and shaken,
In a stupor, can't awaken.
Slowly drying-up and shrinking;
Must do something, I am thinking.
Do you think he'd feel more frisky
If he had a shot of whiskey?
But the whiskey he has tasted,
Seems to me the money's wasted.
Do you think in his condition
He could ever have ambition?
Do you think there is no hope.
Will he always be a dope?
Do you think that in his head
There's a brain that isn't dead?
Now my friend, I've no intention,
The guy's name, I will not mention.
T'would be wrong, I must confess,
So, will have to let you guess.

You might guess wrong, that is true.
Perhaps my boy, it might be you;
Might be George or Mac or Eddie,
Ralph or Bob or Fred or Leddy;
Might be Wakefield, Gill or Roy,
Herman, Joe or Carl Old Boy.
I won't name too many others,
'Neath our skin we all are brothers.
Don't forget our sisters mister.
I will close this silly twister;
Time that I was getting busy.
Signed with Honor, To Our Izzy.
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(original copy)