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