From the Evening Star, October 15, 1913. By Philander Johnson.
My Uncle Jim has done ‘most everything there is to do.
He says life’s not worth livin’ when there isn’t something new
To hold a man’s attention. He has tamed a buckin’ hoss
And drove in trottin’ races without grumblin’ at the loss.
He has taken railroad journeys an’ he’s viewed the buildin’s high;
He’s lost a stack of poker chips an’ never blinked an eye.
But his latest fad’s the queerest that has ever come to him.
He’s writin’ poetry! Jes’ think of that fur Uncle Jim!
He writes about the stable an’ the haystack an’ the cows
An’ comes as near profanity as the police allows.
He jiggles an’ he joggles till he gets ‘round to a rhyme
An’ don’t keer what he says, so long as he is keepin’ time!
We used to think he’d mebbe be a man of useful mold,
A blacksmith or a congressman or else a farm-hand bold.
But now we think his chances for great things are mighty slim.
He’s writin’ poems; an’ that’ll be ‘bout all from Uncle Jim.
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