'tause I'm Tross
Mamma, 'tause I'm tross don't whip me;
I tan't help it, not a bit!
'Tis the tandy hurts my stomat,
And that mates me whine and fret.
Sometimes, too, I'm whipped for trossness
When the trossness tomes from meat;
Thint how tiders drowl and drumble,
And then dive me food to eat
That will mate me well and happy,--
Wheat and oat-meal, rice and truit,
These will mate me dood and gentle,
'Stead of mating me a brute.