Queer, ain’t it, ’bout thet nitrigin—Down Rover!
Will sez we git mos’ twict ez much o’ feed
Fer growin’ them thar teeny warts on clover....
Uh huh.... We’re limin’ tew; Will sez the sile
Hez soured bad an’ needs a “alkali”....
I do’ know what ’tis—never heerd it—I’ll
Ax him; on sich like words I’m kind o’ shy....
Malviny? Reely? Throwed anuther fit?
Yew better call, I reckon, Docter Mott;
Seems like she’s gittin’ old enuff ter quit—