It is true, fellow citizens, That my old docket lying there for years On a shelf above my head and over The seat of justice, I say it is true That docket had an iron rim Which gashed my baldness when it fell -- (Somehow I think it was shaken loose By the heave of the air all over town When the gasoline tank at the canning works Blew up and burned Butch Weldy) -- But let us argue points in order, And reason the whole case carefully: First I concede my head was cut, But second the frightful thing was this: The leaves of the docket shot and showered Around me like a deck of cards In the hands of a sleight of hand performer. And up to the end I saw those leaves Till I said at last, "Those are not leaves, Why, can't you see they are days and days And the days and days of seventy years? And why do you torture me with leaves And the little entries on them?