Things are never so bad but they might have been worse. An immigrant
into the South paid a negro to bring him a wild turkey. The next day he
complained: "You shouldn't shoot at the turkey's body, Rastus. Shoot at
his head. The flesh of that turkey was simply full of shot." "Boss,"
said the negro, "dem shot was meant for me."
I
His hoss went dead an' his mule went lame;
He lost six cows in a poker game;
A harricane came on a summer's day,
An' carried the house whar' he lived away;
Then a airthquake come when that wuz gone,
An' swallered the lan' that the house stood on!
An' the tax collector, _he_ come roun'
An' charged him up fer the hole in the groun'!
An' the city marshal--he come in view
An' said he wanted his street tax, too!