While You Sleep

There’s an ending to the daytime,

     There’s the working and the playtime,

There’s an end to every pleasure and an end to every game;

     There’s an end to joy and sorrow,

     And to yesterday, tomorrow,

But your whiskers, they keep growing just the same.

     There’s a stoppage to the seasons,

     For apparently no reasons,

Seasons come and seasons vanish in this never settled clime;

     Friends they comfort you and grieve you,

     Come to visit you and leave you

But your whiskers, they keep coming all the time.

     There’s an end to tiresome joking,

     There’s an end to fragrant smoking,

There’s an end to all affection when your heart has lost its flame;

     There’s a stoppage to your thinking,

     To your eating and your drinking,

But your whiskers, they keep growing just the same.

     You may shave and shave each morning

     At the starting of the dawning,

You may shave till twilight deepens and you light the tallow flame;

     You may singe and pull and rub them,

     You may get a bat and club them,

But your whiskers will keep coming just the same.

Dec. 20, ‘09