Weddin’s ust to last for a week, But now we’s rowin’ up Hard Times Creek. Somethin’s conjured dis white-folks’ South, Somethin’ big with a hongry mouth, Eatin’ an’ eatin’⁠—I done my bes’, Scattered de fedders and burnt de nes’, Filled de bottle an’ made de hand An’ buried de trick in Baptis’ land, An’ dat trick’s so strong, I was skeered all night, But, somehow or udder, it don’ wuhk right. Ef I got me a piece of squinch-owl’s tail An’ some dead-folks’ yearth fum de county jail, It mout wuhk better⁠—but I ain’t sho’, And de wind keeps scrabblin’ under de do’, Scratchin’ and scratchin’ his buzzard-claws, Won’t nuthin’ feed you, hungry jaws?