A Busy Man

This crowded life of God's good giving

No man has relished more than I;

I've been so goldarned busy living

I've never had the time to die.

So busy fishing, hunting, roving,

Up on my toes and fighting fit;

So busy singing, laughing, loving,

I've never had the time to quit.

I've never been one for thinking

I've always been the action guy;

I've done my share of feasting, drinking,

And lots of wenching on the sly.

What all the blasted cosmic show meant,

I've never tried to understand;

I've always lived just for the moment,

And done the thing that came to hand.

And now I'll toddle to the garden

And light a good old Henry Clay.

I'm ninety odd, so Lord, please pardon

My frequent lapses by the way.

I'm getting tired; the sunset lingers;

The evening star serenes the sky;

The damn cigar burns to my fingers . . .

I guess . . . I'll take . . . time off . . . to die.