I hear the Bob-white’s bell-clear call
That bounces off the tansy- top;
A Mourning-dove’s half-muted drawl
Invites me where the rapids drop.
A Vesper Sparrow, singing, asks
“Why do you, man, forever work?
We birds, too, have our daily tasks,
But find some time to play and shirk.”
But, obligations I must meet;
Bread is my boss, and I’m her tool.
Yet–who must work like this to eat
Is less than slave–he is a fool.
by Ray Romine Thursday, July 19, 1945
