Page:The book of American negro poetry.djvu/70

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O chillen, run, de Cunjah man, Him mouf ez beeg ez fryin' pan, Him yurs am small, him eyes am raid, Him hab no toof een him ol' haid. Him hab him roots, him wu'k him trick, Him roll him eye, him mek you sick—
 * De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man,
 * O chillen, run, de Cunjah man!

Him hab ur ball ob raid, raid ha'r, Him hide it un' de kitchen sta'r, Mam Jude huh pars urlong dat way, An' now huh hab ur snaik, de say. Him wrop ur roun' huh buddy tight. Huh eyes pop out, ur orful sight—
 * De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man,
 * O chillen, run, de Cunjah man!

Miss Jane, huh dribe him f'um huh do'. An' now huh hens woan' lay no mo'; De Jussey cow huh done fall sick. Hit all done by de Cunjah trick. Him put ur root un' 'Lijah's baid. An' now de man he sho' am daid—
 * De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man,
 * O chillen, run, de Cunjah man!