Lazy Days

Lazy weather ev’rywhere,

On the ground or in the air;

Lazy mornin’ noon an’ night,

Lazy whether wrong or right.

‘Spect the season is to blame,

Other times don’t feel the same.

Git up mornin’s still an’ sore,

Drag y’r feet erlong the floor;

Scurcely any appetite,

Nuthin’ tastes exactly right.

Dreadin’ ev’ry thought uv work,

Jes’ would like to set an’ shirk.

Like to set out in the sun

Till the weary days is done;

Out behind the cow-shed, say,

Where the sun beats down all day.

Bones all achin’, tired to death,

Hurts to merely draw y’r breath.

Lazy days, I don’t know why;

Feel ez tho’ you’d like to die.

No ambition, no desire,

On’ jus’ to hug the fire.

Other times ain’t jest the same –

‘Spect the season is to blame.

c. March 23-28, 1904