Caint no doctor make a rose-bud of a busted-thistle mouth,
Nor he caint turn north a foot that’s got to growin’ sorto’ south.
Spect this chap inside him knowed it wa’n’t no earthly kind o’ use
To be squeezin’ on a lemon that didn’t have a bit o’ juice;
—Maybe ’lowed his ugly mug ’ould be a doin’ less of sinnin’
If he’d leave it jist a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’.
’Course he didn’t reason on it, cause he didn’t have no sense;
But I kindo’ sorto’ reckon that he done like others do—
Jist set down up where he’d clum on top o’ Nater’s ol worm-fence
An’ let the sun bile down onto him an’ soak him clean plum thro’ an’ thro’