A Busy Man

 This crowded life of God's good giving
No man has relished more than I;
I've been so goldarned busy living
I've never had the time to die.

So busy fishing, hunting, roving,
Up on my toes and fighting fit;
So busy singing, laughing, loving,
I've never had the time to quit.


I've never been one for thinking
I've always been the action guy;
I've done my share of feasting, drinking,
And lots of wenching on the sly.

What all the blasted cosmic show meant,
I've never tried to understand;
I've always lived just for the moment,
And done the thing that came to hand.


And now I'll toddle to the garden
And light a good old Henry Clay.

I'm ninety odd, so Lord, please pardon
My frequent lapses by the way.

I'm getting tired; the sunset lingers;
The evening star serenes the sky;
The damn cigar burns to my fingers .
 .
 .

I guess .
 .
 .
 I'll take .
 .
 .
 time off .
 .
 .
 to die.

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