James Whitcomb Riley (7 October 1849 - 22 July 1916 / Greenfield, Indiana)
'Why do I sing--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Glad as a King?--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Well, since you ask,--
I have such a pleasant task,
I can not help but sing!
'Why do I smile--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Working the while?--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Work like this is play,--
So I'm playing all the day--
I can not help but smile!
'So, If you please--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Live at your ease!--Tra-la-la-la-la!
You've only got to turn,
And, you see, its bound to churn--
I can not help but please!'
The farmer pondered and scratched his head,
Reading over each mystic word.--
'Some o' the Dreamer's work!' he said--
'Ah, here's more--and name and date
In his hand-write'!'--And the good man read,--
''Patent applied for, July third,
Eighteen hundred and forty-eight'!'
The fragment fell from his nerveless grasp--
His awed lips thrilled with the joyous gasp:
'I see the p'int to the whole concern,--
He's studied out a patent churn!'
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