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Poem	I used to sing, when I was young, The joy of idleness; But now I'm grey I hold my tongue, For frankly I confess If I had not some job to do I would be bored to death; So I must toil until I'm through With this asthmatic breath. Where others slothfully would brood beg for little chores, To peel potatoes, chop the wood, And even scrub the floors. When slightly useful I can be, I'm happy as a bboy; Dish-washing is a boon to me, And brushing boots a joy. The young folks tell me: "Grandpa, please, Don't be so manual; You certainly have earned your ease - Why don't you rest a spell?" Say I: I'll have a heap of rest On my sepulchral shelf; So now please let me do my best To justify myself." For one must strive or one will die, And work's our dearest friend; God meant it so, and that is why I'll toil unto the end. I thank the Lord I'm full of beans, So let me heft a hoe, And I will don my garden jeans And help the beans to grow.
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