THE WEAVER BIRD
Gosh, kid! that bird a-cheepin' in the tree
All green an' cocky—why, it might be me
Singin' to you.... Wisht I was just a bird
Bringin' you worms—aw, you know, things I've heard
'Bout me—an' flowers, maybe.... Like as not
Somebody'd get me with an old slingshot
An' I'd be dead.... Gee, it'd break you up!
Nothin' would be the same to you, I bet,
Knowin' my grave was out there in the wet
And we two couldn't pet no more.... Say, kid,
It makes me weep, same as it always did,
To think how bad you'd feel....
I got a thought,
An awful funny one I sorta caught—
Nobody never thought that way, I guess—
When I get blue, an' things is in a mess
I map out all my funeral, the hearses
An' nineteen carriages, an' folks with verses
Sayin' how great I was, an' all like that,
An' wreaths, an' girls with crapes around their hat
Tellin' the world how bad their hearts was broke,
An' you, just smashed to think I had to croak....
I can't stand that bird, somehow—makes me cry....
The world'll be darn sorry when I die!
David Morton
(Who, being very polite, only thought it.)