Weedin’

Thought ‘twuz mighty mean uv dad,

Years ago when I wuz small,

Fur tur think thet I could come

     ‘At his ev’ry beck an’ call,

N’ work fur him when I wuz so

     Awful busy with my own;

All I wanted him tur do,

     Wuz tur let his son erlone.

Weedin’ time he ‘uz speshly mean

     On’y got my board an’ clothes;

Said my size wuz jest the thing

     Tur weed in between the rows.

So I ast him why he did n’

     Make ‘em wider, an’ he says

Thet he didn’ jactly know,

     Lan’ wuz wuth tew much, he guess.

Likely story, sech talk ez thet,

     He’d more lan’ ‘n he could pay

Taxes on. Then I would sorter dream

     ‘Bout the fishin’ in the bay.

An’ I’d kiner glance over an’ say

     ‘Et fish ud bite tewday. I knew

An’ dad ‘ud rap his hoe an’ say,

     “Needn’t worry, they won’t bite yew.”

Nov. 1^st, ‘96

B. Courier,

Oct. 2, ‘98