There aint no God!
Coz if there were—
My boy what's under foreign sod
Would be alive, and here:
Instead of which young William Porter
What never listed when he orter—
Has his farm;
And braunges yonder safe away from harm.
Poor lad!—he went—
I can't forgit that night—
While Porter laughed him outer sight;
Now—he is spent:
Porter's all right.
What does he care?
He's thinking of another farm,
Instead of laying in some ditch
He's rich!
And folk'll gallop at his nod.
I say it!
Dost hear me ... Thou?
There aint no God!