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Robert W Service - Retired
Work rating: Medium

I used to sing, when I was young,
The joy of idleness;
But now I`m grey I hold my tongue,
For frankly I confess
If I had not some job to do
I would be bored to death;
So I must toil until I`m through
With this asthmatic breath.

Where others slothfully would brood
 beg for little chores,
To peel potatoes, chop the wood,
And even scrub the floors.
When slightly useful I can be,
I`m happy as a boy;
Dish-washing is a boon to me,
And brushing boots a joy.

The young folks tell me: "Grandpa, please,
Don`t be so manual;
You certainly have earned your ease -
Why don`t you rest a spell?"
Say I: I`ll have a heap of rest
On my sepulchral shelf;
So now please let me do my best
        To justify myself."

For one must strive or one will die,
And work`s our dearest friend;
God meant it so, and that is why
I`ll toil unto the end.
I thank the Lord I`m full of beans,
So let me heft a hoe,
And I will don my garden jeans
And help the beans to grow.
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