From youngest childhood up to early age

Tom Drummond was accounted careless,

And while some thought that Thomas was a sage

Because of careless, witty, cutting epigrams,

And disregard of law and consequence,

Although he somehow always came out right)

Still, some men knew him just for what he was:

A downright careless kid, and hence

When Thomas piled his car up in a ditch

And crawled out laughing, all unhurt,

They said his careless ways would be his end,

But Thomas laughed, and brushing off the dirt,

Went home. One time he tipped a reading lamp.

His house caught fire, but Tom escaped.

He lived alone, so little things like that

Scarce worried him, though watchers gaped

To see his coolness, and the reckless way

He dashed inside to bring out things.

He'd carelessly left his papers and his will,

His stocks and bonds and cash and rings,

All scattered loose about his desk,

But he recovered all and laughed

To see folks worry at his careless way

Of treating danger, though 'twas half

Infernal luck, and nothing else.

Tom was always knocking something over

Carelessly, or tearing up a bill;

He always found a dozen four-leafed clovers

Carelessly, without half looking round,

And just as easily, let them drop,

Or lost his hat, or knocked somebody down.

He'd always laugh, and run his hand through his great mop

Of hair, at that, and say 'twas just his luck.

No other word was quite the one for Tom

But careless, so one day we had a chance

To think of what we'd said. A foolish Pom

Belonging to a girl Tom knew, ran off,

And Tom went after, down the pike,

Across a field, and stopped to watch him go,

Laughing at the hairy little tyke,

And then ran on again, until the silly dog

Came to the edge of the cliff, up near the bridge.

Tom, close behind, tripped on a log,

Fell headlong, and, laughing, careless, died.