(To G. B. P.)

I have filched a mite ob time
Fo' de writin' ob dis rhyme.
Seems I c'u'den do a thin' ontwil I'd writ it.
Evah man ain' got a fren'
Dat kin stir his lyrick pen,
An' ain' evah one kin feel
Han' clasp lak de grip ob steel:
Consequently, dey dat kin kin not fo'git it.

Dat prestige ain' ha'f bad a bit,
An' gole is precious, I'll etmit;
But dar's sumpin' in dis worl' a 'hole heap dearah.
It's de knowin' ob a fren'
Dat is yore fren to de en',
Dough de en' en's in a cloud,
Or in a caskit, grave an' shroud,
Yore fren's frenship maiks de gloomy outlook clearah.