An’ almos’ everything thet’s in it
Looks ’zac’ly like ’t was drownded.
Fokes yuseter say it’s jes’ thet crooked
Yew couldn’t cross the crick
’Thout findin’ yew was whar ye started—
But thet’s lay’n ’t on tew thick.
I wan’ ter tell ye tho’ they’s somepin’
’Bout this ’ere Skillet “river”
Right naow in Aprul time thet gives ye
A reel poetic shiver.