Earth has pulled a blanket round her,
To her chin, and yawned to bed;
Then I come along and shovel
Through to scratch her tousled head.
She arouses, turns and mutters,
“Make it snappy, son. I’m dead!”
She should. grumble; she should cry–
With this shoveling, so am I!
by Ray Romine Sunday, November 26, 1950
