Your uncle is ready for supper, with an appetite
whet to an edge
That’ll cut like a bush-scythe in swale-grass, and
couldn’t be dulled on a ledge.
And marm, she slats open the oven, and pulls
out a heapin’ full tin
Of the rippin’est cream-tartar biskit a man ever
pushed at his chin.
We pile some more wood on the fire, and open
the damper full blare,