Classic Poem

I ain't on good terms 'ith Wilson; he ain't on good terms 'ith me.
Neighbored fer nigh onto ten years, friendly as friendly could be,
An' then fell out over a horse trade, crooked as ever you see.

Wilson, he owned a big ches'nut trotter — a spankin' fine horse.
Used to go splittin' th' breezes 'long of a quarter-mile course,
Fine lookin' animal, Stranger; plenty o' gimp, speed, and force.

I had a pacer could go some; bright bay, almost a blood-red,
Nobby an' stylish fer light work, groomed to a shine, an' well fed,
But a durn nasty habit o' balkin', when th' notion got into her head.

Wilson druv over one mornin'; sez t' me, sez he: " Say, Win,
Wisht y'd come 'long 'ith yer stop-watch, held fer a quarter-mile spin. "
Had th' big ches'nut hitched up t' a road-cart an', sez he: " Jump in! "

Say! He showed speed fer that quarter! Fast as I ever see made!
" Wilson, " sez I, " he's a winner; puts my bay horse in th' shade. "
He sez to me, sez he: " Winston, how'd y' consider a trade?

" I ain't a fast-horse man, Winston; I ain't jes' nachelly fit
T' own sech a stepper as this is; that is th' reason of it. "
He talked so almighty hones' I thought that he was — an' I bit!

Seemed like a sin when I guv him some cash an' that balky ol' bay;
Sort o' like robbin' th' feller — giving him swamp-grass fer hay;
But tradin' of horses is tradin' — an' that's about all there's t' say.

It happened in county-fair season; I druv over there th' same day,
Entered my horse in th' races, chucklin' th' whole of th' way,
An' found when I got there that Wilson had entered th' race 'ith my bay.

He grinned when he see me a-comin' a-drivin' his ches'nut, an' I
Fer th' life o' me couldn't help laughin' t' think o' th' fun, by an' by,
When he druv that ol' bay in th' races an' found out her weakness! My, my!

Nex' day when th' free-for-all started, my ches'nut shot into fust place,
Went t' th' quarter like lightnin' — th' wa'n't nothin' else in th' race,
Went at a two minute clip, sir, but couldn't stand up t' th' pace.

Fer when we got up t' th' quarter, my ches'nut went down on his knees,
Gaspin' fer breath ev'ry minute, with an on-healthy sort of a sneeze.
Wind-broken! Yes, sir, by thunder! Had a regular wind-broken wheeze!

Mad! I was mad as a hatter! Mad till I jes' couldn't talk.
But I looked down th' track at th' starters, an' there stood th' bay at a balk,
While a crow-bait from down in th' country was winnin' th' race in a walk.

I ain't on good terms 'ith Wilson; he ain't 'ith me, as y' see.
Neighbored fer nigh onto ten years, friendly as friendly could be.
He says I done him dirt in a horse trade; I say that he done it t' me.