Jes' so with poets: wut they've airly read

Gits kind o' worked into their heart an' head,

So's't they can't seem to write but jest on sheers

With furrin countries or played-out ideers,

Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't smack

O' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back:

This makes 'em talk o' daises, larks, an' things,

Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,

(Why, I'd give more for one live bobolink