Isa NutterDoc Meyers said I had satyriasis,And Doc Hill called it leucæmia—But I know what brought me here:I was sixty-four but strong as a manOf thirty-five or forty.And it wasn’t writing a letter a day,And it wasn’t late hours seven nights a week,And it wasn’t the strain of thinking of Minnie,And it wasn’t fear or a jealous dread,Or the endless task of trying to fathomHer wonderful mind, or sympathyFor the wretched life she ledWith her first and second husband—It was none of these that laid me low—But the clamor of daughters and threats of sons,And the sneers and curses of all my kinRight up to the day I sneaked to PeoriaAnd married Minnie in spite of them—And why do you wonder my will was madeFor the best and purest of women?
Doc Meyers said I had satyriasis,And Doc Hill called it leucæmia—But I know what brought me here:I was sixty-four but strong as a manOf thirty-five or forty.And it wasn’t writing a letter a day,And it wasn’t late hours seven nights a week,And it wasn’t the strain of thinking of Minnie,And it wasn’t fear or a jealous dread,Or the endless task of trying to fathomHer wonderful mind, or sympathyFor the wretched life she ledWith her first and second husband—It was none of these that laid me low—But the clamor of daughters and threats of sons,And the sneers and curses of all my kinRight up to the day I sneaked to PeoriaAnd married Minnie in spite of them—And why do you wonder my will was madeFor the best and purest of women?