When Fortune’s milk jes’ turns ter whey an’ curds,
An’ spiles yer spir’t-yel appetite.
The fambly ’d went ter church—ter hear ’bout Moses
An’ how ’e fit all kinds o’ luck;
While me an’ Bill jes’ lolled an’ dug our noses
Deep int’ the fresh green grass an’ muck.
I sez, “Bill, yew remind me some o’ Job,
Fer yew aint cussed the fates an’ quit,
Like lots o’ fellers would on this ’ere globe;
I sh’ think yew’d cause enuff fer it.”