I’s s’prised dat a chile er yo’ mammy ’ud steal any man’s water-million.
En I’s now gwiner cut it right open, en you shain’t have nary bite,
Fuh a boy who’ll steal water-millions—en dat in de day’s broad light—
Ain’t—Lawdy! its green! Mirandy! Mi-ran-dy! come on wi’ dat switch!
Well, stealin’ a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever yeered tell er des sich?
Cain’t tell w’en dey’s ripe? W’y, you thump ’um, en we’n dey go pank dey is green;
But w’en dey go punk, now you mine me, dey’s ripe—en dat’s des wut I mean.
En nex’ time you hook water-millions—you heered me, you ign’ant, you hunk,
Ef you doan’ want a lickin’ all over, be sho dat dey allers go “punk!”
—Harper’s Magazine.