Classic Poem

Thar are these six things ez the Lord doth hate —
Yes, seven ez make Him sick!
I wuz thinkin' 'em over myself last night,
And they're enough tew make enny one kick!
Ye kin find the hull list, ef ye don't believe me,
In Proverbs, along to'rds the fust;
And uv all the sins uv humanity,
I guess they are clus tew the wust.

A proud look on the face uv a man
Ez hain't got no pride at all;
Who don't even know the sense uv the word —
Who thinks it means nothin' but gall!
A lyin' tongue thet wags, b'gosh,
Like the clack uv an old grist-mill —
Thet is hung in the middle and works both ends,
Thet death alone kin keep still!
Hands thet shed innercent blood comes next,
And I calkerlate ye'll agree
Thet thar's nothin' more pizon in enny one
Than deliberet krewelty!
And then thar's the heart thet's busy all day
And purty near all the night,
A-devizin' all kinds uv wickedness,
And tryin' tew make black look white!
Nur He don't like the feet thet be so swift
Ter run inter mischef and sich:
The path thet they make don't run very straight,
And like ez not leads tew a ditch!
A crooked witness ez can't speak the trewth
Don't cut enny figger with Him!
A perjerer's chances uv gittin' thar,
I reckon, are all-fired slim!
Then the feller thet's allers a-raizin' a row
'Twixt people ez wanter be friends:
He's the last on the list, but he wun't be the least
When He declars His dividends!

These are the things ez the Lord jest hates
And abomernets all the way threw;
I wuz thinkin' 'em over myself last night,
And I'll be durned ef I don't tew!