By P.S. Gifford
I knew a man once full with sorrow,
Who only lived for each tomorrow.
He made plans he knew he’ll never do,
and procrastinated his whole life through.
The day of his funeral no-one came,
the preacher declared it was a shame.
“Many folks told me they were going to go
But when the day came-they failed to show.”
When he was embedded in the cold ground,
No-one there cried or made any sound.
No-one there sniveled or seemed to care-
as no-one, you see, was actually there.
I knew an old woman, I am sad to say,
who lived her short life for yesterday.
She wept over what she couldn’t change-
that regret and sorrow sent her insane.
She cried and cried until her final day,
And kept on doing so as she slipped away
But at her service no-one there shed tears
For no-one had liked her much for years.
She died, you see, completely alone-
with empty heart and an empty home.
As no-one listened as she spun her woe-
of all those yesterdays from long ago.
There is a man, I am glad to say-
Who lives for every new glorious day.
He laughs, tells stories and attempts poetry
I am sure you’ve guessed; that fellow’s me.
