Couldn’t give ’em information, for ’twas dark’s
a cellar shelf;
—Couldn’t tell ’em nothing ’bout it—for I
didn’t know myself.
So I gripped the “Johnson’s” tiller, kept the
rudder riggin’ taut,
Kept a-praying, chawed tobacker, give her steam,
and let her swat.
Now, my friend, jest listen stiddy: when the sun
come out at four,