He looked right smart like he was goin’ ter laff,
But didn’t, tho’ a smile loafed ’round ’is eyes.
“It’s kind o’ mixy, true ’s yew live,” he sez,
A-pokin’ with ’is boot a big fat sow
(Who’d swiped a ear from one the little runts)
Until she squealed an’ cussed at ’im in what
Bill calls Hog Latin, ran a rod, an’ sulked
Fi’ seconds, then snook back ter snitch some more—
“Yer caint tell nothin’ ’bout a feller’s vote
This year. Take ol’ Doc Garner—demicrat