IV
The Siren
They’s a hull snarl o’ potes hez driveled ’bout Joon
With its leefyness, freshness an’ greenth;
’N’ if I was anuther, I s’pose—which I ain’t—
I’d be the four umpty an’ steenth.
Ez regards ter the Skillet—wal, pardner, b’leeve me,
It’s right in its prime, buggosh;
Yew kin talk all yer wanter, it’s fine ter jes’ sawnter
An’ look at ol’ Nacher a-slosh.
I was thar spell ago—druv sixteen mile
With Bill an’ a load o’ soy beans;
An’ I swar ter the Dooce thet I never hed knowed
Afore what greenin’ means.
Be’n a-rainin’ like sin, but hed then faired up
An’ the sky was julluk a gentian;
I ain’t never knew sich a hevvenly blue,
Ef ye’ll ’low me in passin’ ter mention.
The river was full, plum full ter the top,
A matter o’ thirty odd feet,
An’ the water hed backed ont’ the bottoms right smart,
But was dreenin’ off fast with the heat.
’Twas a sarpent o’ choc’lit a-rithin’ an’ twistin’
Ri’ down a arborial tunnel;
An’ Bill ’e sez, “Naow, ef we hed a ol’ scaow,
We could flote ter Noorleans thru a funnel!”
But the way them fiel’s was enjoyin’ thersel’s!
They was fairly yellin’ with glee;
I reckon I must ’a’ be’n pretty high keyed,
An’ I tell ye it jes’ got me.
I kind o’ suspishun Bill heerd suthin’ tew,
Fer a exstasy hit ’im like pain;
It looked like fer sure he was feelin’ the lure
O’ the siren thet sings after rain.