A Cabbage Patch
Folk ask if I’m alive, Most think I’m not; Yet gaily I contrive To till my plot. The world its way can go, I little heed, So long as I can grow The grub I need. For though long overdue, The years to me, Have taught a lesson true, —Humility. Such better men than I I’ve seen pass on; Their pay-off when they die; —Oblivion. And so I mock at fame, With books unread; No monument I claim When I am dead; Contented as I see My cottage thatch That my last goal should be —A cabbage patch.