Twentieth Century Jazz
By Carrie Blaine Yeiser
I ain’t a-comin’ back
Till I know why,
I ain’t a-goin to live
Where I have to die!
Man drifts to earth
Like a summer cloud—
Next comes the hearse
And a linen shroud.
Nailed in a box,
Served to the worms,
’Thout bein’ consulted
Nor asked to make terms.
This thing o’ livin’
An’ dyin’ again,
Is same as a hog
Cooped up in a pen.
He’s got just so long
To wallow in swill,
So he grunts about—
Never gettin’ his fill.
Then his light is put out
An’ he’s served in chops,
On a linen cloth
To a bunch o’ wops.
So, I won’t be squeezed into a body again
Till I know the wherefore, why, an’ when.
An’ I reckon—time I grow that wise,
I’ll be headin’ for the gates o’ Paradise.
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