James Weldon Johnson, ed. (1871–1938). The Book of American Negro Poetry. 1922.
Ittle Touzle Head
C
Erbout how low sweet chariot swings,
Truint Angel, wifout wings,
Mah ’ittle Touzle Head.
Bekaze I foul de time an’ key,
Thinks you dat I is Black Pattie,
Mah ’ittle Touzle Head?
Dat offen laffs an’ selem cries,
Is sho a God gib natchel prize,
Mah ’ittle Touzle Head.
Mates wid dem toddlin’, velvet feet,
Jes to roun’ you out, complete,
Mah ’ittle Touzle Head.
Knows yore evah A, B, C,
Plum on down to X, Y, Z,
Mah ’ittle Touzle Head.
Ef he ain’t got no niece lak dis;
Fro yore Unkel one mo’ kiss,
Mah ’ittle Touzle Head!
(By charm or craf’—doan mattah how)
You stay jes lak you is right now,
Mah ’ittle Touzle Head.