THERE’S nothing but tears for the man who steers our ship o’er the troubled sea; there’s nothing but grief for the nation’s chief, whoever that chief may be. Whatever he does, he can hear the buzz of critics as thick as flies; and all of his aims are sins and shames, and nothing he does is wise. There’s nothing but kicks for the man who sticks four years to the White House chair; and his stout heart aches and his wishbone breaks and he loses most of his hair. There’s nothing but growls and the knockers’ howls, and the spiteful slings and slams; and the vile cartoons and the dish of prunes and a chorus of tinkers’ dams. Oh, we humble skates in our low estates, who fuss with our garden sass, should view the woes of the men who rose above and beyond the mass, and be glad today that we go our way mid quiet and peaceful scenes; should thankfully take the hoe and rake, and wrestle with spuds and greens!