This year the farm land yields?
Aren’t you tired of the wetness and the dryness,
The dampness, and the hotness, and the cold?
Of waiting on the weather man with shyness
To see if the last plans hold?
Aren’t you tired of the doctoring and nursing,
Of the “sickly winters” and the pocket pills,—
Tired of sorrowing, and burying, and cursing
At Providence and undertakers’ bills?
Aren’t you tired of all the threatening and doubting,