Have You Seen My Scuppernongs?

They’re especially nice in the moanin’ time all covered in dew and drippin' with juice. I’ll have to get out my cane and hike the back forty to fetch some field hands. These things must be handled very delicately. Only the small tender grip of a young child will suffice.
























“Who will help me plant the seeds?”



















“Who will help me grow the seeds?”
























Old Miss’res Johnson down the road a piece will help me drink the Scuppernong wine that she makes. She’s busy stomping grapes now. Her legs stain up the most frightful shade of bronze.

She boils up some jars too fer the lesbian sharecroppers around the bend in the river to can up into pre-zerves. Aint nothing like homemade lesbian scuppernong jam fer breakfast.

Later in the day I plan to relax and twirl my parasol in a wicker swing that hangs from a Spanish moss laden live oak tree in front of my plantation. If you look real close you can see the rolling hills and the mighty Miss’ippi river meanderin’ in the distance. While the slaves serenade me to sleep with negro spirituals.