Maybe this version will be more popular south of I-10.

In da week 'fore dey headin' ta Arrakis, when all de fin'al hustlin' 'bout done reached a near unbearable frenzy, an old crone came visitin' de mama of T-Paul, sha.

It was a muggy night deep in da swamp, at Castle Caladan, an' dat ancient pile o' cypress logs dat been servin' de Atreides family as home fo' twenty-six generations done had dat sticky feelin' it get 'fore a change in da weather, cher.

Da old woman, she was let in by de side door, mosquiters buzzin' down de creaky passage by T-Paul’s room, an' she was allowed a moment ta peek in at him where he lay in his bed, going do-do.

By de flickerin' light of a lantern, swayin' an' dancin' with da swamp breeze, de awakened boy could see a bulky female shape at his door, standin' one step ahead o' his mama, dat's for true. Da old woman was a swamp witch shadow – hair like Spanish moss, hooded 'round darkness of features, eyes like glowin' fireflies, cher.

“Is he not small fo' his age, Jessica?” de old woman asked, her voice croakin' an' rustlin' like the swamp itself, dat's right.

T-Paul’s mama answered in her soft drawl: “The Atreides are known ta start late gettin' their growth, Your Reverence.”

“So I’ve heard, so I’ve heard,” croaked de old woman. “Yet he’s already fifteen, mais oui.”

“Yes, Your Reverence, dat's right.”