Name's Bobby Wilkins; I'm a-goin' on six years old;

Aunt Polly says 'at I'm a-gettin' purty pert 'n bold;

She 'aint er might uv use fer boys 'at's jest er-bout my size;

If Tabby'n me hev eny fun her "angry pashuns rise," 'n

When I try ter make some sparks fly out uv Tabby's tail

Aunt Polly says, "Bad boys like you are sometimes put in jail;"

But I don't mind her not a bit, an' make jest lots uv noise,

An' nen she looks so cross an' sez, "Deliver me frum boys."

My Aunt Polly likes her cat er-nough sight better'n me, 'n'

Keeps a-coddlin' it 'ith cream 'n' sometimes catnip tea.

Seen some tracks behin' ther shed, an' nen I sez, sez I,

"I'll catch yer, Mister Cotton-Tail, to make a rabbit pie;"

So me'n' Tommy Baker found er empty cracker box;

Thought we'd hev it big er-nough fer fear he wuz er fox,

An' nen we propped ther cover up 'n' fixed it 'ith a spring

'At shut it suddin' 'ith a bang ez tight ez anything.

We cut er fresh green carrot top 'n' put it in fer bait,

Wuz both so sure we'd ketch him 'at we couldn't hardly wait;

Pounded in some stakes each side 'n' made it good 'n' stout;

If Mister Cotton-Tail got in he never could get out.

Tom staid 'ith me till mornin', an' almos' 'fore it wuz light

We run behin' ther shed 'n' foun' our trap all shet up tight;

An' nen I shouted, "Got him!" 'n' Tom threw up his hat—

Blame 'f that ol' rabbit wasn't my Aunt Polly's cat!