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Poem	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.
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