Was in thirty-nine I was born,
One Sunday night in Old July.
I Think I’ll die one winter morn.
It’s what I think; please don’t ask why.
I’ve not accomplished very much
Since that July so long ago.
Done this and that, and such and such,
But never made a real bright glow.
My life was filled with wasted hours.
Was all my fault; I know that’s true.
But I was young and smelled the flowers.
As I look back, I know time flew.
I didn’t believe my Daddy when he told me that time would fly.
I finally learned my lesson as I’m about to up and die.
