Grand-pa's Whim

Robert William Service

While for me gapes the greedy grave
           It don’t make sense
That I should have a crazy crave
           To paint our fence.
Yet that is what I aim to do,
           Though dim my sight:
Jest paint them aged pickets blue,
           Or green or white.
           
Jest squat serenely in the sun
           Wi’ brush an’ paint,
An’ gay them pickets one by one,
          —A chore! It ain’t.
The job is joy. Although I’m slow
           I save expense:
So folks, let me before I go,
           Smart that ol’ fence.

Them pickets with my hands I made,
           When young and spry;
I coloured them a gleeful shade
           To glad the eye.
So now as chirpy as a boy,
           ‘Ere I go hence,
Once more let me jest bright to joy
           Our picket fence.

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