Judy Cook, Folksinger
As Sung By Judy Cook
One day I was walking, I heard a complaining
I saw an old woman, the picture of gloom
She gazed at the mud on her doorstep, ‘twas raining,
And this was her song as she wielded her broom
O life is a toil, and love is a trouble,
Beauty will fade and riches will flee
Pleasures they dwindle and prices they double
And nothing is as I would wish it to be
There’s too much of worriment goes to a bonnet
There’s too much of ironing goes to a shirt
There’s nothing that’s worth all the time we spend on it
There’s nothing that lasts us but trouble and dirt.
In March it is mud, it is slush in December
The midsummer breezes are loaded with dust.
In Fall the leaves litter. In muddy September
The wallpaper rots and the candlesticks rust.
There are worms on the cherries and slugs on the roses
And ants in the sugar, and mice in the pies
The rubbish of spiders no mortal supposes
And ravaging roaches, and damaging flies.
It’s sweeping at six, and it’s dusting at seven,
It’s vittles at eight, and it’s dishes at nine,
It’s potting and panning from ten to eleven.
We scarce break our fast ere we plan how to dine.
With grease and with grime from corner to center
Forever at war and forever alert.
No rest for a day lest the enemy enter.
I spend my whole life in a struggle with dirt.
Last night in my dreams, I was stationed forever
On a far little rock in the midst of the sea.
My one chance at life was a ceaseless endeavor
To sweep off the waves ere they swept over me.
Alas, ‘twas no dream. Ahead I behold it.
I find I am helpless my fate to avert.
She lay down her broom. Her apron she folded.
She lay down and died...AND WAS BURIED IN DIRT!