It is not the length of life, but depth of life.
by Robert William Service
It's mighty quiet in the house
Since Mary Ellen quit me cold;
I've swept the hearth and fed the mouse
That's getting fat and overbold.
I've bought a pig's foot for the pot
And soon I'll set the fire alight;
Then I may eat or I may not,
Depends upon my appetite.
Since Mary Ellen left me lone
I haven't earned a bloody bob.
I sit and sigh, and mope and moan,
And bellyache I quit my job.
My money's mostly gone,--I think
I ought to save it up for food . . .
But no, I'll blow it in for drink,
Then do a bunk for good.
I watch my mouse his whiskers preen;
He watches me with wicked glee.
Today--oh God! It's years sixteen
Since Mary Ellen wed with me.
Oh how the dear girl hated vermin!
She left rat poison on the shelf . . .
Friend Mouse, your doom I new determine
Then--how about myself?