Ben King's Verse/A Negro Song of Home

by Benjamin Franklin King

'Tani't berry many people wat'll listen to a
      niggah
   Un 'low dey's enny sense in wot he say,
But I'se gwine ter guv de 'sperience of mah feelin's,
      and I figgah
   Dat dey's quite a smart o' people tinks mah way.
W'en a man begins a-shoutin' 'bout de good tings day
       he's missin'
   Kickin' kase dey ain't a fortune in his job,
Let 'im go home to his kitchen, an' set down a while
      an' listen
   To de singin' ob de kettle on de hob.

I've hayrd de strains ob "Home, Sweet Home"
      when Patti was a-singin'
   An' de aujience was a-spillin' ob deir tears;
But I didn't mind the singah, fo' a different tune
      kep' ringin'
   Wif hits ha'nty kin' ob music in mah ears.
An' I reckernized de melerdy so powerful bewitchin'
   Dat made mah heart like sixty fo' ter t'rob,
An' I mejiate felt a hank'rin' fo' my cozy little kitchen
   An' de singin' ob de kettle on de hob.

De rich man can inhabitate a palace ef he wishes,
   Wif bricker-er-brack and pictuahs on de wall;
An' kin lay on velvet sofers an' eat off'n golden dishes,
   But I wouldn't swap mah kitchen fo' his all;
Fo' hit wouldn't be like home ter me but 'ceptin' I
      could listen,
   A-puffin' at de backy in mah cob,
While de good Lawd seemed a-speakin' ob a home-
      like kin' ob blessin'
   Frough de singin' ob de kettle on de hob.