Classic Poem

'Tis twelve o'clock in Possum Flat;
The cabbage steams, and bacon's fat;
The bread is made of last year's corn —
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

The shadows lengthen north and south;
The water wells up in your mouth;
You're neither sober nor forlorn,
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

A quiet falls, the smoke curls up
Like incense from a censor cup;
It makes you glad that you were born,
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

The cur, erstwhile stretched in a snore,
Lays stout siege to the kitchen door;
Nor will he raise it, or be gone,
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

'Tis twelve o'clock in Possum Flat;
The cabbage steams, and bacon's fat;
The bread is made of last year's corn —
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

The shadows lengthen north and south;
The water wells up in your mouth;
You're neither sober nor forlorn,
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

A quiet falls, the smoke curls up
Like incense from a censor cup;
It makes you glad that you were born,
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

The cur, erstwhile stretched in a snore,
Lays stout siege to the kitchen door;
Nor will he raise it, or be gone,
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.