Of claims that I've lost it, well, I'm having none;
I'm bright as a fiddle and fit as the sun.
Say what you will and I give this rebuke,
I'm still cool as rain and as right as a cuke,
and though it may seem I'm perturbed now and then,
wet as a mad beet and as red as a hen,
we'll see when the time comes, as surely it will,
when I'm over the weather and under the hill,
who's down in the moon and who's over the dump,
who was dumb as a tack and who sharp as a stump.