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 gits 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.