by Peter Newell
Tom Potts was fooling with a gun (Such follies should not be), When—bang! the pesky thing went off Most unexpectedly! Tom didn’t know ’twas loaded, and It scared him ’most to death—He tumbled flat upon the floor And fairly gasped for breath. The bullet smashed a fine French clock (The clock had just struck three), Then made a hole clean through the wall, As you can plainly see.