Putty considable frequent—
Jes’ catch onter that streak o’ the dawn!
Right thar lies my home—
Right thar in the red—
I could slop over, stranger, in po’try
Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.
Stranger, you freeze to this: there aint no kinder gin-palace,
Nor no variety-show lays over a man’s own ranche.
Maybe it hain’t no style, but the Queen in the Tower o’ London
Aint got naathin’ I’d swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.