CHAPTER XII
But now we are in prison and likely long to stay,
The Yankees they are guarding us, no hope to get away;
Our rations they are scanty, 'tis cold enough to freeze,—
I wish I was in Georgia, eating goober peas.
Peas, peas, peas, peas,
Eating goober peas;
I wish I was in Georgia, eating goober peas.
—Stanza of a Prison Song.