Teach me, son, this foreign tongue,
That nigger twist of tongue you've learnt,
We barely hear these things you say:
The effing sound of many forks,
And sheets you say that come in bowls.
We beg to make a sense of these,
And help us, please, to comprehend
I like the way the gestures go,
The strange finesse you do employ,
I wonder when you turned this good,
Such imbecile I never had
'Mo obone', you moved no inch,
'Oni we rho?' you stood a-daft,
I screamed the fork, you laughed so mad,
What sort of tongue, this nigger tongue?
O what a plague befell my son!
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