Poetry Archives

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.