  Lars Sunday night me An’ it wan’ many minits fo’ we heahd ole Romp Talkin’ ter hissef, an’ tree’in’ up’n uh pine Dat wuz all obergrow’d wid uh big grapevine. Speak ter him Romp! Mus’ be uh ’possum, Fred, De way dat dog is cacklin’ an’ losin’ ub he hed. An’ feedin’ on dese fros-bit grapes an’ fat Ef he won’ meck yo’ lip go flip-flop, teck dis hat. Well, it won’ be long fo’ de breck ub day; An’ de possum, showly, he kyant git ’stray, So den I’ll clime dat little black-gum tree; Dat pine’s too full ub grapevines futto see. De day broke clare, an’ up’n de tree I clum, An’ in dem grapevines, twixt de pine an’ gum, A ressin ub his’self, yaller, slick an’ fat, Da lay uh gre’t big ornry Thormas cat! I tuck uh match an’ lit de varmint’s tail, An’ when he jump po’ Romp an’ Fred dey wail; Dat yaller Thormas cat, on fire, ub cose, Dey tuck to be uh red-hot, flamin’ ghose! Romp ain’ no use fuh night dog any mo’, An’ neber ter de swamp he wants ter go; An’ when he comes uh cross uh wile grapevine He al’ays gits relarmed an’ ’gins ter growl an’ whine. He’d know’d de difference in de scent ub fur. So arfter dis I wants uh thorrybred; When dey speaks up’n uh tree you ain’ misled. But if I steals de finis’ thorrybred Da ain’ no use ub praisin’ him ter Fred— He’s jined de chuch. Dat yaller Thormas cat He tho’t uh ghose is all de cause ub dat. I ’gin ter think mehsef dat cat uh witch, Fuh in de swamp ef it is dark ez pitch, An he cum out! de branch it looks so bright De brabest niggah’s obercome wid fright. I ’spises cats, an’ fuh dem hab no use, But it’s mos’ time I’d ended wid uh buse, Fuh when I think erboutin’ “Romps mustake” Dis haid ub mine cummences soon ter ache.
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