Robert William Service (Роберт Уильям Сервис)
Grandad
Heaven's mighty sweet, I guess; Ain't no rush to git there: Been a sinner, more or less; Maybe wouldn't fit there. Wicked still, bound to confess; Might jest pine a bit there. Heaven's swell, the preachers say: Got so used to earth here; Had such good times all the way, Frolic, fun and mirth here; Eighty Springs ago to-day, Since I had my birth here. Quite a spell of happy years. Wish I could begin it; Cloud and sunshine, laughter, tears, Livin' every minute. Women, too, the pretty dears; Plenty of 'em in it. Heaven! that's another tale. Mightn't let me chew there. Gotta have me pot of ale; Would I like the brew there? Maybe I'd get slack and stale - No more chores to do there. Here I weed the garden plot, Scare the crows from pillage; Simmer in the sun a lot, Talk about the tillage. Yarn of battles I have fought, Greybeard of the village. Heaven's mighty fine, I know... Still, it ain't so bad here. See them maples all aglow; Starlings seem so glad here: I'll be mighty peeved to go, Scrumptious times I've had here. Lord, I know You'll understand. With Your Light You'll lead me. Though I'm not the pious brand, I'm here when You need me. Gosh! I know that HEAVEN'S GRAND, But dang it! God, don't speed me.
Robert William Service’s other poems:
915
