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Laury’s “Eats”
“It’s quarter t’ five,” Bill hollers; yew sigh an’ mutter “Gosh!”
An’ jes’ slide int’ yer overhalls an’ shirt;
It ain’t much use ter bother with try’n’ ter take a wash,
F’r in ha’f a hour yew’ll be jes’ ’s bad fer dirt.
Yew’re ou’ the barn ’n a jiffy a-feedin’ Ball an’ Belle,
An’ rubbin’ up ol’ Zilfy’s battered hide;
Yew’re like a tired enjin’, ’cos yer didn’t sleep right well,
But say—that breakfas’ waitin’ thar inside!
It’s wonderful what eatin’ will dew ter set ye right;
It’s one the things ’bout farmin’ ’t nothin’ beats;
Yew get all riled fer sweatin’ ’ithout a break in sight,
But—yew fergit it when it’s time fer eats.
Now toast an’ egg an’ coffee’s ’bout all the av’rage feller
Kin eat fer breakfas’ in a swelt’rin’ town;
But gosh all blinkin’ blazes, yew ain’t no clerk nor teller,
Yew gotta hev reel feed, an’ wash it down.
So in yew go t’ the kitchen, a room o’ quite some size;
Yew grab a cheer an’ haul it up t’ yer place;
Matildy ’n’ Sophy ’s servin’, while Laury fans the flies,
An’ Bill he mumbles thru a form o’ grace.
I wish thet I was able ter dew Bill’s Laury jestice,
An’ tell the diff’runt things she’s set afore ye;
But I’m ez fer from doin’ thet ’ar ez east from west is,
’N’ I suttenly hev no desire ter bore ye.
But ennyhow jes’ listen: Pertaters mashed an’ wavy;
A bowl of yeller butter thick an’ creamy;
A plate o’ spicy sassage with eggs fried in the gravy,
An’ chicken fricaseed, all hot an’ steamy;
A dish o’ gravied dumplin’s, an’ one o’ beans an’ corn—
Thet suckertash o’ Laury’s hits me hard!
Her pickled beets is wonders, her slaw fresh ez the morn,
Her passnips sweeter ’n frankinsense an’ nard.
An’ then they’s jams an’ jellies, a fluffy heap o’ bread,
Hot corncake tew, ’f yew want it—which yew dew;
A leaf o’ curly lettis, or, if yew wish, a head;
An’ unyons raw, or peppered in a stew.
An’ when yew’ve et thru this ’ere a time or tew or so,
An’ drunk three cups o’ coffee ’thout a sigh
(Ye never know it’s chic’ry, an’ ye never need ter know),
Then, by the Great Lord Harry, comes the pie!
Two kinds at Laury’s allers, an’ a hunk o’ cheese with it,
An’ top it off with do’nuts, milk, an’ cake;
Bill passes yew a teethpick, yew settle back a bit,
An’ reely think yew’re gittin’ wide awake.
Wal, ye need thet kind o’ fuel, ’cos farm work’s tur’bel grillin’,
On freezy days or in a b’ilin’ heat;
It ain’t farm life or workin’, ez mos’ fokes thinks, is killin’—
It’s when ye cain’t git all ye want ter eat!