'Tain't no usen being skar'd of congers,
E'n lettin black cats turn ur back;
Jest go'n er bout yuh bisnes,
An let the congers hav yer track.

Frida' aint no wus dan Monday,
Ez fur ez luck is consern;
Ef yuh han ich, don't spit in it:
Wont git nusin but what's u'rn.

Ef yuh nose ich, no 'un comin,
Ef yuh foot ich, yer goin no wher;
U'can let wurms crall al'over you
Den you'll get nuthin new to ware.

'N cos you hav a little lernin
Don't sit in try ter figer rich;
Jes git yet spade an shuvel
An go trotin' long toder ditch.

Win yer feel a little happy
Don't think of al de sorros yer had;
Cos yer eye is trembling a little
Dats no sine yer goin ter get mad.

Cos de middle toe iz longer den de big on,
Don't yet think gwine ter rule;
'N kase my hair gro' on my forehead,
Yer neanter take me fur a fool.

I am gointer sing sum in der monin,
See if de haks catch me before night;
Ef da do don't yer wury,
Jest say: 'I bet day had ter fite.'