XVII.
I’M sorry fer the poor old boy we’ve got
In seven-sixty-six; he’s nearly due
To ask St. Peter to please let him through.
His wife’s a beaut and young, and mebby what
She’s doin’ right along is hope he’ll not
Be yanked away and planted in the sod
With her left here to fasten to his wad—
If that’s your guess, though, take another shot.
She won’t allow him to get out of bed,
But once when I went up because she’d rung
The first thing that I knew he up and flung
The quilts and things across the room and said
She’d hid his shirt and pants—that’s on the dead—
And then, before she’d caught her breath, he sprung
Up like a wild man and got in among
Her trunks and looked up pitiful and pled.
“I want my pants,” he says, “I’ll die unless
You let me out to get some exercise.”
She shook her head and looked him in the eyes
And told me it was second childishness
And that he wasn’t strong enough to dress—
Then out he jumped and started fer the door,
With nothin’ but his nightshirt on, and swore
He’d run away—he meant it, too, I guess.
But he was old and slow and she was spry,
And when he started to get out she caught
A pitcherful of water up and got
Around in front of me and let it fly.
She turned and give a sorry little sigh
When he’d went back to bed, and said a lot
Of things about how sad she’d be and not
Know how to bear the shock if he would die.
When I get old and wrinkled up and gray
I want my wife to be as old as me:
Then she’ll not be ashamed if people see
Us out together, and they’ll never say
They wonder what she cost me, anyway.
I’d hate to think that every time when we
Went anywhere the men would wink and she
Had sad clo’s to jump into any day.