Not for garnered riches,
On garment small neat middle stitches,
Quiet evenings and solitude?
For this a singing of gratitude?
Certainly all these are okay,
But most of all is the end of this day.
Body exhausted and worn,
In my side, a thorn.
The thought of going on like this,
Does not whisper to me of bliss.
Still and all, I know at the dawn,
All these will be gone.
I'll rise and walk across my new floor,
I'm bragging and such a bore,
My daughter-in-law laughed and said I look rich.
About worn out tile, I'll no longer gritch
