My Tears Must Stop, For Every Drop

Well For The Drones Of The Social Hive That There Are Bees Of An Industrious Turn, Willing, For An Infinitesimal Share Of The Honey, To Undertake The Labor Of Its Fabrication.

Extremes Meet', As The Whiting Said With Its Tail In Its Mouth.

Some Sigh For This And That; My Wishes Don't Go Far; The World May Wag At Will, So I Have My Cigar.

Peace And Rest At Length Have Come, All The Day's Long Toil Is Past; And Each Heart Is Whispering, "home, Home At Last!"

What Joy Have I In June's Return? My Feet Are Parched-my Eyeballs Burn, I Scent No Flowery Gust; But Faint The Flagging Zephyr Springs, With Dry Macadam On Its Wings, And Turns Me 'dust To Dust.'