When Underneath the Brown Dead Grass
By Henry Kendall
When underneath the brown dead grass
My weary bones are laid,
I hope I shall not see the glass
At ninety in the shade.
I trust indeed that, when I lie
Beneath the churchyard pine,
I shall not hear that startling cry
Thermom is ninety-nine!
If one should whisper through my sleep
Come up and be alive,
Id answer No, unless youll keep
The glass at sixty-five.
I might be willing if allowed
To wear old Adams rig,
And mix amongst the city crowd
Like Polynesian nig.
Far better in the sod to lie,
With pasturing pig above,
Than broil beneath a copper sky
In sight of all I love!
Far better to be turned to grass
To feed the poley cow,
Than be the half boiled bream, alas,
That I am really now!
For cow and pig I would not hear,
And hoof I would not see;
But if these items did appear
They wouldnt trouble me.
For ah! the pelt of mortal man
Weighs less than half a ton,
And any sight is better than
A sultry southern sun.