"The Saddest Sort Of Life"
Is one who always takes, but does not give,
He warms himself by fires of other men,
But never learns, `tis time he should begin.
He's never ready, quite, to go to work,
He'd rather play around, his duties shirk,
He thinks that if he waits, the time will come
When he can have a peaceful, happy home.
He doesn't seem to know he's growing old,
His wife and children, scarcely clad and cold,
He travels on through life, but does not think,
Alas, then comes the end, He's reached the brink.
He's laid away to rest beneath the soil,
But left no plot of ground to show his toil,
He goes, as others go with passing years,
But for this sort, it seems, nobody cares.
There are such men as this, whom you have known,
They never reaped a field which they had sown,
They live on earth for years, but serve it not,
When gone, false tears are shed, and soon forgot.
By Jim W. Middleton, Sr. DeKalb, Texas