“I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more—that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ’pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is . . . Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

(To Robert Gould Shaw )

Flushed with the hope of high desire,
    He buckled on his sword,
To dare the rampart ranged with fire,
    Or where the thunder roared;
Into the smoke and flame he went,
    For God’s great cause to die—
A youth of heaven’s element,
    The flower of chivalry.

This was the gallant faith, I trow,
    Of which the sages tell;
On such devotion long ago
    The benediction fell;
And never nobler martyr burned,
    Or braver hero died,
Than he who worldly honor spurned
    To serve the Crucified.

And Lancelot and Sir Bedivere
    May pass beyond the pale,
And wander over moor and mere
    To find the Holy Grail;
But ever yet the prize forsooth
    My hero holds in fee;
And he is Blameless Knight in truth,
    And Galahad to me.

The night is black,
The train speeds on its track,
Now it tunnels cliffs,
Now it crosses water,
Now above the vale it lifts,
Now along the river,
Again within the city,
Then in the village center.

Again amidst the blackest black
Where only night is sitting,
The train speeds on its track,
Chug-chug, chug-chug,
Jug-jug, jug-jug.
To its sound my thoughts are fitting,
Chug-chug, chug-chug,
Jug-jug, jug-jug.

Where will you carry me, I wonder?
Please set me down in Paradise.
To Eden’s garden take me back.
But whatever place it be,
upon whatever track,
I do not care, for you bear
My very dearest here with me.

                The world is a beautiful place 
                                                           to be born into 
if you don’t mind happiness 
                                             not always being 
                                                                        so very much fun 
       if you don’t mind a touch of hell
                                                       now and then
                just when everything is fine
                                                             because even in heaven
                                they don’t sing 
                                                        all the time

             The world is a beautiful place
                                                           to be born into
       if you don’t mind some people dying
                                                                  all the time
                        or maybe only starving
                                                           some of the time
                 which isn’t half so bad
                                                      if it isn’t you

      Oh the world is a beautiful place
                                                          to be born into
               if you don’t much mind
                                                   a few dead minds
                    in the higher places
                                                    or a bomb or two
                            now and then
                                                  in your upturned faces
         or such other improprieties
                                                    as our Name Brand society
                                  is prey to
                                              with its men of distinction
             and its men of extinction
                                                   and its priests
                         and other patrolmen
                                                         and its various segregations
         and congressional investigations
                                                             and other constipations
                        that our fool flesh
                                                     is heir to

Yes the world is the best place of all
                                                           for a lot of such things as
         making the fun scene
                                                and making the love scene
and making the sad scene
                                         and singing low songs of having 
                                                                                      inspirations
and walking around 
                                looking at everything
                                                                  and smelling flowers
and goosing statues
                              and even thinking 
                                                         and kissing people and
     making babies and wearing pants
                                                         and waving hats and
                                     dancing
                                                and going swimming in rivers
                              on picnics
                                       in the middle of the summer
and just generally
                            ‘living it up’

Yes
   but then right in the middle of it
                                                    comes the smiling
                                                                                 mortician