En flung sin aroun', wid a turrible splatter.
En cahooted wid Satan, en dat wat de matter—
An' troubles, well. I bet you dey had 'em—Adam—
De chillen ob Adam, what forgot ter pray, dey had 'em,
And dey keep on a hadden 'em down tuh dis day.
But dat wa'n't de las' ob de appile tree,
Kase she scatter her seeds bofe fur en free,
And dat's whut de mattah wid you en me,
I knows de feelin's what brought on de fall,
Dat same ole appile, an' ole Satan's call,