from the Humorous Writings of William Fenton Tyree, Sr.
Compiled & Edited by C. Virginia Tyree
May, 1990

 Tom Connor, he came strollin' round
 When I wuz ploughin', 'tater ground:
 He 'lowed I was a lot too soon
 For it was the wrong time uh moon.
 He claimed that when the moon was full
 It had a way to put a pull
 On 'tater tops and make 'em grow
 Above the ground and not below.
 He said I'd think that I'd have made
 A powerful crop until my spade
 Would fail to find spuds of a grade
 Fit fer the market or fer use,
 And not enuf to feed a goose.
 He 'lowed if I would make a crop
 And not have 'taters go to top,
 I must take care and watch the moon,
 Plant not too late and not too soon,
 But when the sign's exactly right,
 Which means the moon don't rise all night,
 Why, then its time to plant the spuds,
 If I don't want 'em to be duds.
 But I told Tom I thought 'twoud be
 A proper time to try and see
 If moonshine made a 'tater grow,
 For if it did i'd like to know.
 So I ploud on and worked my land;
 Planted my spuds and got a stand,
 And when they's up ten inches high,
 I worked 'em good and laid 'em by.
 Tom waited for the moon to change
 And spent his evenin's at the grange,
 Advisen how to rule the land
 With arguments to beat the band.
 The moon was slow a comin' round
 'Til rain had fell and wet the ground,
 And Tom stood 'round and cursed and swore,
 And hoped it wouldn't rain no more.
 But rain was just the thing for me
 And made me happy as could be,
 For growin' 'taters need it wet
 And better crops your sure to get.
 But time moved on, it got too late
 To plant pertaters, such is fate,
 For them that waits around and pine
 And always lookin' for a sign.
 My spuds kept growin' fresh and fine,
 The patch was white with bloomin' vine.
 Along about the fourth I took
 My sack and went to have a look
 And see if I might grapple out
 A peck or two, or thereabout,
 And have some 'taters, pork and beans,
 With good hog jowl and mustard greens,
 For Ma had sed her kin would be
 A visitin' of her and me.
 And like as not, would stop and stay,
 For quite a spell, while up this way.
 I pushed the vines back off the row,
 I didn't have to use a hoe.
 The ground was busted open wide,
 Them 'taters didn't try to hide,
 But just rolled out so fine and grand
 And clean of grit and dirt and sand.
 It made me feel all swelled with pride
 And pleasure that I could not hide.
 And so I sent the hired man
 Down to Tom Connor's with a pan
 Piled heapin' full of them there spuds,
 And I went in and changed my duds.
 So this I state, as I have found
 You plant pertaters in the ground.
 You work 'em late, you work 'em soon,
 But, don't plant 'taters in the moon.


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