Taters are bad, tomatoes blue.
You've heer'd of Brother Simpson's losses?—
Buried his wife and spiled his hay.
And the three best of Hornby's hosses
Some Injin cuss has stol'n away.
VOICES.
Zoë, jest fix up my gown...
There's my hair a-coming down...
Drat the babby, he's so crusty—
It's the heat as makes him thusty...