Robert William Service Poems

I

Once, when a boy, I killed a cat.
I guess it's just because of that
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Being a shorty, as you see,
A bare five footer,
The why my wife is true to me
Is my six-shooter.
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Someone's Mother trails the street
Wrapt in rotted rags;
Broken slippers on her feet
Drearily she drags;
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A hundred people I employed,
But when they struck for higher pay,
I was so damnably annoyed
I told them they could stay away.
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Heigh ho! to sleep I vainly try;
Since twelve I haven't closed an eye,
And now it's three, and as I lie,
From Notre Dame to St. Denis
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Familiarity some claim
Can breed contempt,
So from it let it be your aim
To be exempt.
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He burned a hole in frozen muck,
He pierced the icy mould,
And there in six-foot dirt he struck
A sack or so of gold.
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When day is done I steal away
To fold my hands in rest,
And of my hours this moment grey
I love the best;
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My mother loved her horses and
Her hounds of pedigree;
She did not kiss the baby hand
I held to her in glee.
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Addict of Punch and Judy shows
I was when I was small;
My kiddy laughter, I suppose,
Rang louder than them all.
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