PROP yer eyes wide open, Joey, Fur I've brought you sumpin' great. Apples? No, but something better! Don't you take no int'rest? Wait! Flowers, Joe, -- I knowed you'd like 'em -- Ain't them scrumptious? Ain't them high? Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey? There -- poor little Joe! -- don't cry. I was skippin' past a winder Where a bang-up lady sot All amongst a lot of bushes, Each one climbin' from a pot; Every bush had flowers on it -- Pretty? Mebbe! Oh, no! Wish you could a seen 'em growin', It was sich a stunnin' show. Well, I thought of you, poor feller, Lyin' here so sick and weak, Never knowin' any comfort, And I puts on lots o' cheek. "Missus," says I, "if you please, mum, Could I ax you for a rose? For my little brother, missus, Never seed one, I suppose." Then I told her all about you, -- How I bringed yer up, poor Joe! (Lackin' women-folks to do it) Such a' imp you was, you know, -- Till yer got that awful tumble, Just as I had broke yer in (Hard work too) to earn your livin' Blackin' boots for honest tin. How that tumble crippled of you, So's you could n't hyper much, -- Joe, it hurted when I seen you Fur the first time with yer crutch. "But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum, 'Pears to weaken every day." Joe, she up and went to cuttin', -- That's the how of this bokay. Say, it seems to me, ole feller, You is quite yourself to-night; Kind o' chirk; it's been a fortnight Since yer eyes has been so bright. Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it. Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe. Smellin' of 'em 's made you happy! Well, I thought it would, you know. Never seed the country, did you? Flowers growin' everywhere! Sometime, when you're better, Joey, Mebbe I kin take you there. Flowers in heaven? 'M -- I s'pose so; Don't know much about it, though; Ain't as fly as what I might be On them topics, little Joe. But I've heard it hinted, somewheres, That in heaven's golden gates Things is everlastin' cheerful, -- B'lieve that's wot the Bible states. Likewise, there folks don't get hungry; So good people when they dies Finds themselves well fixed forever -- Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes? Thought they looked a little sing'ler. Oh, no! Don't you have no fear; Heaven was made for such as you is -- Joe, what makes you look so queer? Here -- wake up! Oh, don't look that way! Joe! My boy! Hold up your head! Here's your flowers -- you dropped 'em, Joey -- Oh, my God! can joe be dead? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VOICES OF THE AIR by KATHERINE MANSFIELD MOTHER EARTH by GEORGE SANTAYANA SPEAKIN' O' CHRISTMAS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR A MASQUE OF DEAD QUEENS by STANLEY E. BABB MARCH MADNESS ON EDGEWATER HILL by BEULAH ALLYNE BELL IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: MITIGATIONS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |