The Apple-Woman’s Complaint
While me deh walk ’long in de street,
Policeman’s yawnin’ on his beat;
An’ dis de wud him chiefta’n say—
Me mus’n’ car’ me apple-tray.
Ef me no wuk, me boun’ fe tief;
S’pose dat will please de pólice chief!
De prison dem mus’ be wan’ full,[1]
Mek dem’s ’pon we like ravin’ bull.
Black nigger wukin’ laka cow
An’ wipin’ sweat-drops from him brow,
Dough him is dyin’ sake o’ need,
P’lice an’ dem headman boun’ fe feed.
P’lice an’ dem headman gamble too,
Dey shuffle card an’ bet fe true;
Yet ef me Charlie gamble,—well,
Dem try fe ’queeze him laka hell.
De headman fe de town police
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