NOT ONE DAY TO PLAY






HE SAT AT THE DESK PAYING THE BILLS,
THE HOUSE QUIET; THE NIGHT SOLEMN AND STILL.
HE THOUGHT BACK TO LIFE OF ANOTHER TIME;
AGE NOW REPLACED THE ONCE YOUNG FACE WITH LINES.

HE PONDERED OVER WHAT HE COULD AFFORD TO PAY,
THE HOURS PASSED AS HE LOOKED AT HIS PEN,
HE WAS ALWAYS ONE ON WHOM YOU COULD DEPEND,
EVEN IN YOUTH HE NEVER PUSHED RESPONSIBILITY AWAY
AND HE WISHED HE'D TAKEN JUST ONE DAY TO PLAY.

HE DIDN'T ASK FOR MUCH, HE DID WHAT HE COULD;
NEVER SOUGHT EVIL, ALWAYS THOUGHT PEOPLE WERE GOOD;
RAISED HIS VOICE ONLY ON RARE OCCASIONS
AND SLEEPING PAST DAWN WAS HIS VACATION.

THERE WAS ENOUGH SO EACH MOUTH WAS FED,
THOUGH FIVE SHARED ONE ROOM, THEY EACH HAD A BED.
THE SOIL HAD TOUGHENED HIS SKIN;
HIS HAIR WAS NOW THINNING AND GRAY,
AND AS HE THOUGHT BACK IN TIME
HE WISHED HE'D HAD BUT ONE DAY TO PLAY.

A QUIET MAN, NOT GIVEN TO CHATTING,
TOLERANT AND PATIENT, NOT ONE FOR SPATTING.
HONEST AND LOYAL TO THOSE HE CARED FOR,
NOT BITTER THAT LIFE HADN'T GIVEN HIM MORE.
BUT, NOW, AS HE SAT ALONE IN THE ROOM
HE FOUND HE HAD TO BRUSH A TEAR AWAY
FOR THE YEARS THAT HAD PASSED ALL TOO SOON
WHILE HE HAD NOT TAKEN EVEN ONE DAY TO PLAY.

HE WASN'T BIG ON SITTING IN A PEW,
HIS FRIENDS WERE KIND, BUT NUMBERED FEW.
THE BOOKS LINED THE SHELVES; THEY STILL WERE UNREAD,
FOR THERE WAS ALWAYS SOMETHING TO TEND INSTEAD.

HE LOOKED AT THE PEN, HIS HAND, AND THE PAPER,
WISHED HE COULD BELIEVE IN THE GIFT OF PRAYER,
WROTE OUT A BILL HE STILL HAD LEFT TO PAY
WHILE SADNESS SURROUNDED IN A SOLEMN WAY
THE MAN WHO HADN'T HAD ONE DAY TO PLAY;
THE MAN WHO NEVER TOOK ONE DAY TO PLAY.