To the Over-Exuberant

When the days are warm and sunny, and you’ve got a little money in the pocket which so often is so plum full of emptiness, when the skies are blue and rosy and dame nature isn’t prosy, and the day is passing over without struggle, strife or stress, then you sing and shout and whistle, dance about like downy thistle, loving everybody near you as you love yourself, no doubt, and you want the world to hear you and you want the world to cheer you as the man who’s always happy, who is never down and out.

But one day the sky is cloudy, and the atmosphere is shroudy, and you find your pocket empty from extravagance perchance, and your bones are stiff and achy, and you owe, your credit shaky, then your courage is expended, and you cannot sing and dance. Then’s the time you need supplying with the joys you’ve sent a flying, then’s the time you need the ardor you have wasted on yourself; so when next you feel like dancing, kicking high and gaily prancing, save a little of the pressure for the days you’re on the shelf.

Dec. 8, ‘09