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Poem	De way t'ings come, hit seems to me, Is des' one monst'ous mystery; De way hit seem to strike a man, Dey ain't no sense, dey ain't no plan; Ef trouble sta'ts a pilin' down, It ain't no use to rage er frown, It ain't no use to strive er pray, Hit's mortal boun' to come dat way. Now, ef you 's hongry, an' yo' plate Des' keep on sayin' to you, "Wait," Don't mek no diffunce how you feel, 'T won't do no good to hunt a meal, Fu' dat ah meal des' boun' to hide Ontwell de devil's satisfied, An' 'twell dey's some'p'n by to cyave You 's got to ease yo'se'f an' sta've. But ef dey 's co'n meal on de she'f You need n't bothah 'roun' yo'se'f,[Pg 226] Somebody's boun' to amble in An' 'vite you to dey co'n meal bin; An' ef you 's stuffed up to be froat Wid co'n er middlin', fowl er shoat, Des' look out an' you 'll see fu' sho A 'possum faint befo' yo' do'. De way t'ings happen, huhuh, chile, Dis worl' 's done puzzled me one w'ile; I 's mighty skeered I 'll fall in doubt, I des' won't try to reason out De reason why folks strive an' plan A dinnah fu' a full-fed man, An' shet de do' an' cross de street F'om one dat raaly needs to eat.
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