The poem
While for me gapes the greedy grave It don't make sense That I should have a crazy crave To paint our fence. Yet that is what I aim to do, Though dim my sight: Jest paint them aged pickets blue, Or green or white.
Jest squat serenely in the sun Wi' brush an' paint, An' gay them pickets one by one, --A chore! It ain't. The job is joy. Although I'm slow I save expense: So folks, let me before I go, Smart that ol' fence.
Them pickets with my hands I made, When young and spry; I coloured them a gleeful shade To glad the eye. So now as chirpy as a boy, 'Ere I go hence, Once more let me jest bright to joy Our picket fence.