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Paul Laurence Dunbar - De Way T`ings Come
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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` plate
  Des` 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 hide
  Ontwell de devil`s satisfied,
  An` `twell dey`s some`p`n by to cyave
  You `s got to ease yo`se`f an` sta`ve.

  But ef dey `s co`n meal on de she`f
  You need n`t bothah `roun` yo`se`f,
  Somebody`s boun` to amble in
  An` `vite you to dey co`n meal bin;
  An` ef you `s stuffed up to be froat
  Wid co`n er middlin`, fowl er shoat,
  Des` look out an` you `ll see fu` sho
  A `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 out
  De reason why folks strive an` plan
  A dinnah fu` a full-fed man,
  An` shet de do` an` cross de street
  F`om one dat raaly needs to eat.
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