He Is Not Dead, He Is Just

Somebody's Sent A Funny Little Valentine To Me. It's A Bunch Of Baby-roses In A Vase Of Filigree, And Hovering Above Them ... Is A Fairy Cupid Tangled In A Scarf Of Poetry.

Tell You What I Like The Best - 'long About Knee-deep In June, 'bout The Time Strawberries Melts On The Vine, - Some Afternoon Like To Jes' Git Out And Rest, And Not Work At Nothin' Else!

I Don't Know How To Tell It--but Ef Such A Thing Could Be As The Angels Wantin' Boardin', And They'd Call Around On Me-- I'd Want To 'ccommodate 'em--all The Whole-in-durin' Flock-- When The Frost Is On The Punkin And The Fodder's In The Shock.

But The Air's So Appetizin'; And The Landscape Through The Haze Of A Crisp And Sunny Morning Of The Airly Autumn Days Is A Pictur' That No Painter Has The Colorin' To Mock-when The Frost Is On The Punkin And The Fodder's In The Shock.

He Is Not Dead, He Is Just - Away.