Dead-ripe in August. Appetite ’bout gone,
An’ nervous ez a new-broke colt hitched up
Ter plow. An’ still I chawed an’ smoked an’ chawed,
An’ couldn’t seem ter git enough. Black Twist
Ter me was like a peece o’ straw ter yew.
I scoured the kentry stores; the strongest brands
Would satisfy no more ’n molasses would.
O’ co’se yew understand I wa’n’t no slave
Ter thet thar weed; I only hed ter hev it,
That’s all. (They’s fokes ’at thinks they ain’t no diff’runce