Explore "The Little Old Log Cabin" by Robert W. Service on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When a man gits on his uppers in a hardpan sort of town, / An' he ain't got nothin' comin', an' he can't afford ter eat, / An' he's in a fix fer lodgin', an' he wanders up an' down, / An' you'd fancy he'd been boozin', he's so locoed 'bout the feet; / When he's feelin' sneakin' sorry, an' his belt is hangin' slack, / An' his face is peaked an' grey-like, an' his heart gits down an' whines, / Then he's apt ter git a-thinkin' an' a-wishin' he was back / In the little ol' log cabin in the shadder of the pines.
When he's on the blazin' desert, an' his canteen's sprung a leak, / An' he's all alone an' crazy, an' he's crawlin' like a snail, / An' his tongue's so black an' swollen that it hurts him fer to speak, / An' he gouges down fer water, an' the raven's on his trail; / When he's done with care and cursin', an' he feels more like to cry, / An' he sees ol' Death a-grinnin', an' he thinks upon his crimes, / Then he's like ter hev' a vision, as he settles down ter die, / Of the little ol' log cabin an' the roses an' the vines.