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Show On women all men should have pity, for theirs is the heaviest load; And one may be tried on judgment day for each hobo on the road... ooo In a cabin down on Willow Creek we found a stranger dead. That he died in mortal agony was witnessed by his bed. No scratch of pen on paper or clothes tag gave us clues; Just a half used vial of strychnine- Oh God, what routes they choose! We found a few odd dollars in the pocket of his coat. But not a hint from where he came and never a farewell note. His clothes had been made by a tailor and were not much abused... In his hands were a baby's rattle and a pair of baby shoes. That was eighteen years ago now and time has not told the tale Of the broken hearted stranger that came to the end of his trail. Yet it is not of him I am thinking, no time on him would I lose... But I'd like to meet that person who wore those baby shoes... Somewhere in the land of the sunrise, a girl that has just finished school; Is thinking about her daddy and wondering why such a fool. That he was a coward, a quitter; or anything else she may choose... She never has guessed he was buried out west still holding her rattle and shoes. Frank A. Brewer Cowboy Poetry From Utah 49 |
