The woods

by Douglas Malloch

THE SOUL

I figger the soul of a man is the same underneath of a coat er a shirt,

An’ I figger the heart thet pumps life through his frame is the same under di’monds er dirt.

Fer his face may be homely an’ tough be his hide an’ busted the bridge of his beak,

But the Soul of the cuss is a-settin’ inside an’ awaitin’ its moment to speak.

The Soul of the cuss is a-settin’ ’way back, until maybe the lobster fergits

There is any such thing as a Soul in the shack to take note of his devilish fits.

But amuck with the gang, on the long mooch alone, then it follows his footsteps to see;

God knows thet I tell what I know, fer my own it has risen an’ spoken to me.

It has risen an’ spoken its speech by the light of the flickerin’ flame of the fire,