III.
Near the sugar camps of glory is the worter millon patch
Like a great big nest of goodies thet is jest a-gone to hatch;
En ye take yer thumb en finger in an ecstasy so drunk
Thet ye hardly hear the music of theyr dreamy plunky-plunk!
En the griefs air gone ferever, en the sorrers lose control
Ez ye feed the angel in ye on the honeys of a soul,
En ye smack yer lips with laughter while the birds of heaven pipe,
When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter-millons ripe!