‘Tain’t a knowin’ kind o’ cattle
Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;
Put in stiff, you fifer feller,
Let folks see how spry you be,—
Guess you’ll toot till you are yeller
‘Fore you git ahold o’ me!...
Ez fer war, I call it murder,—
There you hev it plain an’ flat;
I don’t want to go no furder
Than my Testyment fer that;