De Way T’ings Come
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’ plateDes’ 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 hideOntwell de devil’s satisfied,An’ ‘twell dey’s some’p’n by to cyaveYou ‘s got to ease yo’se’f an’ sta’ve.
But ef dey ‘s co’n meal on de she’fYou need n’t bothah ‘roun’ yo’se’f,Somebody’s boun’ to amble inAn’ ‘vite you to dey co’n meal bin;An’ ef you ‘s stuffed up to be froatWid co’n er middlin’, fowl er shoat,Des’ look out an’ you ‘ll see fu’ shoA ‘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 outDe reason why folks strive an’ planA dinnah fu’ a full-fed man,An’ shet de do’ an’ cross de streetF’om one dat raaly needs to eat.