Classic Poem

I SORTER like a gloomy day,
Th' kind that jest won't smile;
It makes a feller hump hisself
T' make life seem wuth while.
When sun's a-shinin' an' th' sky
Is washed out bright an' gay,
It ain't no job to whistle — but
It is —
When skies air gray!

So gloomy days air good fer us,
They make us look about
To find our blessin's — make us count
The friends who never doubt,
Most any one kin smile and joke
And hold blue-devils back
When it is bright, but we must work
T' grin —
When skies air black!

That 's why I sorter like dark days,
They put it up to me
To keep th' gloom from soakin' in
My whole anatomy!
An' if they never come along
My soul would surely rust —
Th' dark days keeps my cheerfulness
From draggin'
In th' dust!