Dew ye reckon I’ll fergit thet garrylus
Little cuss?
Wal, ye got anuther “reckon” comin’ then—
Mebbe ten.
IV
The Siren
They’s a hull snarl o’ potes hez driveled ’bout Joon
With its leefyness, freshness an’ greenth;
’N’ if I was anuther, I s’pose—which I ain’t—
I’d be the four umpty an’ steenth.