Some call to shake, for I’ve jest hed to meller a new cowhide.
Miss S. is all ’f a lady; th’ ain’t no better on Big Boosy,
Ner one with more accomplishmunts ’twixt here an’ Tuscaloosy;
She’s an F.F., the tallest kind, an’ prouder ’n the Gran’ Turk,
An’ never hed a relative thet done a stroke o’ work;
Hern ain’t a scrimpin’ fem’ly sech ez you git up Down East,
Th’ ain’t a growed member on ’t but owes his thousuns et the least:
She is some old; but then agin ther’ ’s drawbacks in my sheer;
Wut’s left o’ me ain’t more ’n enough to make a Brigadier:
The wust is, she hez tantrums; she is like Seth Moody’s gun