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.
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