There’s wood to chop, and fires to make,
And food to cook, and bread to bake.
Another takes the empty seat,
For men who live must drink and eat;
And work is waiting to be done,
The work of two, that’s now for one.
We sometimes speak of folks that’s dead,
Of what they did, and what they said;
We sometimes think of them at night,
But sometimes we forget them quite.