Hit’s bin a rat smart hwal sinst Ah roat sumthin fer yawl. Hit aint that Ah dun fergot yawl. Hits jist that thish hyar ole hillbilly hez bin a mat bizzy. Moast speshly, Ah spint a hwal polishin bars at the cownty jail. Peers thet sum foaks hyar bouts doant take kanly tuh likker iffen hit aint bottled in bond. Fellers sposed tuh pay tacksis, they tell me. But iffen Ah start payin tacksis, thaze less munny in it fer thish hyar ole hillbilly!
Ennywaze, they let me out. Turns owt sum feller got into the heavy dense locker an drunkt up awl muh mash. Thouten the mash, the persecutor didden have no case agin me. So the juj thoad it out.
Coarse, Ah happen tuh no thet the juj was a-hankrin fer sum of the ole hillbilly’s rokkit fule mash. He hadden had nun fer near bowt a weak. An Ah wreckin thaze a persecutor er sicks hoo wont turn up thare nose at a sip of mash er ten.
Sinst Ah bin owt, Ah aint had no tam harley seppin fer brewin up muh mash. Hits bin suh cold thet foaks need them sum corn likker tuh warm up. Thish hyar poler vortices has bin visiting too regler lack fer moas foaks. Even foaks fum Nor Dakota ain’t got nuthin good tuh say bout it. An them foaks is yoost tuh them sum coald weather.
Ennywaze, Ah bin thankin bowt fishin. Ah aint intristed in no ahs-fishin. Ah got tuh thow me a lan. Iffen Ah aint thowin a lan, hit ain’t fishin. Jis a dabblin a lan down in hole in the ahs: well, hit aint fer thish hyar ole hillbilly.
Ennywaze, at air ole Son of Sharecroppers dun taken a photo of sum of muh lerrs. Ewe bet Ah got fishin on muh mand . . .