When Underneath the Brown Dead Grass

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.