From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 212-213.
WILLS
O when I thought a short time back,
I’d maybe jump this earthly track
And go cavorting towards some star
Where Peter and the angels are,
At once I called in Lawyer Bill
And puckered up and made a will.
I left to Hannah my estate
Then let the doctors operate
And chisel bones from my bald pate.
Now I maintain that every man
Should make a will while yet he can,
And if he has a wife like mine,
It ought to take him just a line
To say he leaves her all his store,
And likewise wishes it was more.
Your wife would have some cause to rue
If she should lose a man like you,
But if you leave things in a tangle,
The law steps in at every angle.
She cannot buy, she cannot sell,
Unless some judge declares it well.
O when I step in Charon’s boat
And feel the blame thing start to float,
[213]
I shall be sore and plumb disgusted
Unless I leave all things adjusted.
O brother, when you close your eyes
To open them in paradise,
The wife who knew you all your days,
I hope may thusly speak your praise,
“Although in general not much good,
Jim made his will the best he could.”
So every Jack may bless his Jill
If he, like me, will make a will.
Nor should he wait, like this fool bard,
Till Old Man Death is crowding hard.
O brother, while still young and husky,
Go call in Lawyer Bill McClusky.