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!

[!-- H2 anchor --]

David Morton

(Who, being very polite, only thought it.)