Dat ev’ybody lubbed him, an’ bleebe what Billy say.
So I didn’ wan’ ter ’stress him, but meck bleebe I did,
An’ said, “Fum Caesar’s quarters hencefof you is fuhbid;”
An’ den dat leetle roscal say he didn’ cuh fuh me,
“Dese is Mars Pinckney’s ’simmons, an’ Mars Pinckney’s ’simmon tree.”
I tole him ef’n I had uh ax I’d cut de fruit tree down,
An’ ef he fell an’ breck he neck when he struck on de groun’
Hit wouldn’ ’stress me any, kase you t’ink yo’sef so wise,
An’ you de sort ub niggah dat de Babtis’ chuch dispise.