The poem
This crowded life of God's good giving No man has relished more than I; I've been so goldarned busy living I've never had the time to die. So busy fishing, hunting, roving, Up on my toes and fighting fit; So busy singing, laughing, loving, I've never had the time to quit.
I've never been one for thinking I've always been the action guy; I've done my share of feasting, drinking, And lots of wenching on the sly. What all the blasted cosmic show meant, I've never tried to understand; I've always lived just for the moment, And done the thing that came to hand.
And now I'll toddle to the garden And light a good old Henry Clay. I'm ninety odd, so Lord, please pardon My frequent lapses by the way. I'm getting tired; the sunset lingers; The evening star serenes the sky; The damn cigar burns to my fingers . . . I guess . . . I'll take . . . time off . . . to die.