After all, judging your neighbor's soul is a kittle business.

The poem itself began with this stanza: Thrash away, you'll hev to rattle On them kittle-drums o' yourn, 'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be, Guess you'll toot till you are yeller 'Fore you git ahold o' me!

"It's a kittle point.

With such a crazy Statesman as you be, them 'ere little Alabarmy claims would have been squared up long ago, or else, if this court knows herself intimately, the British lion would have been sent off howlin', with a tin kittle tide to his cordil appendage.