| Backward, turn backward, O, time, in your flight
And give me the house that I slept in last night, My bed in the corner so cozy and snug, The chair and the couch and the beautiful rug. They are vanished and gone like a tale that is told, And the floor of the room looks so cheerless and cold. For bedding I have but a thin gunny sack And I shudder to move lest I step on a tack. My dinner was cold and my supper was raw, But I know it is useless to grumble and jaw; For the house cleaning season has come once again To wear out the patience of poor, helpless men. I think every year I'll flee to some clime And miss all the horrors of house cleaning time; I long to go off for a dash to the pole Or be sent to the pen and allowed to dig coal. I fain would abide in some cannibal's camp Or sleep in the jungles so darksome and damp; To mountainous heights with delight I would climb And stay there contented through house cleaning time. |
Verdigris Valley Verse
Albert Stroud
(Coffeyville, Kansas: The Journal Press. 1917)
Page 87
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