Classic Poem

Las' night I read this book o' Johnny Weaver's;
Some little book it is, I'll tell the world.
Some writin' goof he is, I'll say he is.
The name o' this here book is " In American. "
Now make me: This here Weaver, hear me tellin' ye,
Has got it over lots o' writin' birds.
He says a face full, an' he says it straight;
Lays off the mush, the hokum — if you get me.
None o' this Heart o' Gold beneath a Rough
Outside. This Weaver's guys talk reg'lar talk,
His janes get off the chatter like they spill
To me — an' you, unless you kid yourself.
Say, listen: If this Weaver was a frog,
Er if he come a lecturin' from London,
You'd yelp yer nut off, " Ain't the fella quaint?
His stuff is, like they say, from out o' the soil.
Too bad America ain't got no writers. "
Wha'd'ye mean too bad? You make me sick.

Las' night I read this book o' Johnny Weaver's;
Some little book it is, I'll tell the world.
Some writin' goof he is, I'll say he is.
The name o' this here book is " In American. "
Now make me: This here Weaver, hear me tellin' ye,
Has got it over lots o' writin' birds.
He says a face full, an' he says it straight;
Lays off the mush, the hokum — if you get me.
None o' this Heart o' Gold beneath a Rough
Outside. This Weaver's guys talk reg'lar talk,
His janes get off the chatter like they spill
To me — an' you, unless you kid yourself.
Say, listen: If this Weaver was a frog,
Er if he come a lecturin' from London,
You'd yelp yer nut off, " Ain't the fella quaint?
His stuff is, like they say, from out o' the soil.
Too bad America ain't got no writers. "
Wha'd'ye mean too bad? You make me sick.