While others fume and sweat to boil
Scratching and digging for golden spoil
And for what is gold when life is sped
For such times we are long time dead
Long days of worry and constant strife
Such times are not my dreams of life
When in the shade it's ninety-three
No gold out there looks good to me
Content with life and worries few
With jobs of really nothing to do
Slothful times have served me well
For the moment, I've lived to tell
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem