Old Pete Parraday

Old Pete Paraday, his mind works very slow;
But, when it fastens on a thoughts, he will not let it go.
   He measures it and mumbles it until an answer comes,
   Just as he mumbles bits and scraps between his toothless gums.
"I likes to think a bit," says he.  "An', thinkin', by and large
On these 'ere modrun fashions like, 'as fairly riz me garge."

Old Pete Paraday, he thinks the joke is rich;
"'Cen-TEN-ary!  Cen-TEEN-ary!'  Did ever you 'ear sich?
   I never knowed the like," says he: "sich argymints as those.
   The proper word is 'Century,' as any scholard knows.
An', when I makes my century, come seven year ahead,
I'll have you call it 'Century,' an' nothin' else instead."

Old Pete Paraday, he cackles in high glee.
"'Cen-TEN-ary!  Cen-TEEN-ary!'  Ho, lahdidah!" says he.
   "'Tis these 'ere modrun misses is to blame for all sich rot.
   They paints their lips and plucks their brows an' thinks they knows a lot.
But I weren't hatched but yesterdee; an', sure as you're alive,
I knows," says old Pete Paraday, "how many beans make five."

Says old Pete Paraday: "I've thought it up an' down,
An' back an' front an' crossways, an' likewise roun' an' round'.
   The proper word is 'Century,' an' means one hundred years.
   'Cen-TEN-ary!  Cen-TEEN-ARY!'  They fair grits in yer ears!
So when I reach my century, you call it just that way;
An' none of your noo-fangled stuff," says old Pete Paraday.