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Grand-Pa's Whim

Robert Service

While for me gapes the greedy grave
           It don't make sense
That I should have a crazy crave
           To paint our fence.
Yet that is what I aim to do,
           Though dim my sight:
Jest paint them aged pickets blue,
           Or green or white.
Jest squat serenely in the sun
           Wi' brush an' paint,
An' gay them pickets one by one,
           --A chore! It ain't.
The job is joy. Although I'm slow
           I save expense:
So folks, let me before I go,
           Smart that ol' fence.

Them pickets with my hands I made,
           When young and spry;
I coloured them a gleeful shade
           To glad the eye.
So now as chirpy as a boy,
           'Ere I go hence,
Once more let me jest bright to joy
           Our picket fence.

Added: 25 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 22 Oct 2018 3:11 PM | Viewed: 4311 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/4035/ | Viewed on 22 October 2018.
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