I reck’n yew’ve never saw the Skillet?
Wal, ye-e-es, they’s likelier streams;
But when ye git ri’ daown to ’t, stranger,
It kind o’ hants yer dreams.
It pokes along through grayish bottoms,
An’ ’s crookeder then worms,
An’ the water’s sometimes green an’ scummy,
An’ full o’ things thet squirms.
All kinds o’ logs an’ sticks an’ driftin’s
Hez here an’ thar got grounded,