But if he is he’s not anxious to show it,
’R else I don’t know.
Give me a singer of songs ’at sings ’em
With lots of soul;
Whose tweedle-um-twangles whenever he twings ’em
Jist fill you full.
I caint endoor of a poet ’at dribbles
His honey in straw,
An’ hate none the less the blame ijit that scribbles
In styles all raw.