Of All The Men
by Thomas Moore
Off all the men one meets about,
There's none like Jack -- he's everywhere:
At church -- park -- auction -- dinner -- rout --
Go when and where you will, he's there.
Try the West End, he's at your back --
Meets you, like Eurus, in the East --
You're call'd upon for 'How do, Jack?'
One hundred times a day, at least.
A friend of his one evening said,
As home he took his pensive way,
'Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead --
I've seen him but three times to-day!'
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