Three Highwaymen by Ambrose Bierce

A street contractor, t’other morn, Walked out before the day was born. The silver moon beyond his reach Had prudently retired, and each Fair golden star his clutch that feared Trembled, grew pale, and disappeared. The sun rose not⁠—afraid to risk His tempting, double-eagle disk. Our hero⁠—why spin out the verse?⁠— Two robbers robbed him of his purse, Left him uncomfortably spread On his own pavement, semi-dead, And ran away exultant. He Sang “Murder!” “Fire!” in every key, Until politeness bade him cease For fear of waking the police. Then straight unto the Chief, all faint, He made his way and his complaint: “I met two robber-men,” said he; “We battled and⁠—well, look at me !⁠— Sad citizen, O Chief, you see.” “How much?” asked that sententious man. “Well, sir, as nearly as I can Compute it, though I gave them fits, They got away⁠—with my six bits.” “Why, damn your avaricious soul!” The Chief said: “do you claim the whole? You did quite well to get, begad, Within six bits of all they had!”