James Weldon Johnson, ed. (1871–1938). The Book of American Negro Poetry. 1922.

Hog Meat

DEZE eatin’ folks may tell me ub de gloriz ub spring lam’,

An’ de toofsumnis ub tuckey et wid cel’ry an’ wid jam;

Ub beef-st’ak fried wid unyuns, an’ sezoned up so fine—

But you’ jes’ kin gimme hog-meat, an’ I’m happy all de time.

When de fros’ is on de pun’kin an’ de sno’-flakes in de ar’,

I den begin rejoicin’—hog-killin’ time is near;

An’ de vizhuns ub de fucher den fill my nightly dreams,

Fur de time is fas’ a-comin’ fur de ’lishus pork an’ beans.

We folks dat’s frum de kuntry may be behin’ de sun—

We don’t like city eatin’s, wid beefsteaks dat ain’ done—

’Dough mutton chops is splendid, an’ dem veal cutlits fine,

To me ’tain’t like a sphar-rib, or gret big chunk ub chine.

Jes’ talk to me ’bout hog-meat, ef yo’ want to see me pleased,

Fur biled wid beans tiz gor’jus, or made in hog-head cheese;

An’ I could jes’ be happy, ’dout money, cloze or house,

Wid plenty yurz an’ pig feet made in ol’-fashun “souse.”

I ’fess I’m only humun, I hab my joys an’ cares—

Sum days de clouds hang hebby, sum days de skies ar’ fair;

But I forgib my in’miz, my heart is free frum hate,

When my bread is filled wid cracklins an’ dar’s chidlins on my plate.

’Dough ’possum meat is glo’yus wid ’taters in de pan,

But put ’longside pork sassage it takes a backward stan’;

Ub all yer fancy eatin’s, jes gib to me fur mine

Sum souse or pork or chidlins, sum sphar-rib, or de chine.