Our thoughts got as thick an’ as musty an’ blue
As the cloud o’ tobacker smoke, mixed with the
steams
From the woolens that dried on the stringers
and beams.
Old Attegat Peter said we was bewitched;
He said that he seed the Old Gal when she
twitched
A fistful o’ hair out the gray hosses’ tail
For a-makin’ witch tattin’. She’d hung on a nail