From a high branch of the live oak,
the squirrel chatters and turns,
its derriere to the blueheeler,
who in frustration, chases the cat,
the cat chases the rooster,
and the ducks, donald and daisy,
get into the fray, after the po' rooster.
He in desperation, being a manic,
chases the hens who,
having been romanced by the rooster,
stagger, sway and stumble,
into the "hen house to lay",
becoming engaged in their hen house cackleing,
comparing mental notes about,
"this rooster and that".
OH, this one "he has that certain peck",
and how I just totally collapse,
and fall to my knees,
when he gets near me,
when he struts about the barnyard,
adoring, awaiting that peck.
And, amid this barnyard ramble,
I arise and steal their laid product,
taking to the feed store,
returning with feed,
the piney big top circus begins again.
Viewing from a chair,
whose frame is about to decompose,
there 'neath a 40 year old oak,
being both relaxed and de-stressed,
far better than a 5th of Whiskey.
I can then upright and walk,
there into the house,
provided that I do not,
step on the tail of a feline,
sphinx, mostly, coon and danser,
who await at my feet.
If, by chance I do,
I then will become serenaded,
by the feline choir,
of the Full Gospel Sanctified Feline Church,
while the rooster crows,
with his rigorous amens,
it's with a most great appreciation,
of the piney big top circus,
that I just seen.
10/07/2009
7/03/2009
Island In The Sabine
Waters flow all about,
both sides, carrying its passage,
down to the Gulf,
Trees of ancients stand most bold,
upon both shores,
as I, a solitude Island,
stand in this midst,
an ancient grove of mixed trees,
as those that navigate both sides,
have often stop for the night, to sleep,
to fish upon my banks,
to gather thoughts as they rest.
As days breaks upon the eastern shore,
Niblett's Landing,
the rested set to travel,
further up this stream,
that flows so mighty,
whose mighty current,
carrying those pines, cypresses,
fallen to build,
cities upon those grass prairies,
and I, this island,
am the only keeper of the secrets,
shared around the circle of light of night,
of those that slept beneath, the trees.
OH Lafitte, OH Lafitte,
I will forever keep your secret,
as where you place your gold,
far, far away from those that sought,
those you helped their liberty,
now, they sent out searchers for you,
your usage immediately expired.
OH Lafitte, OH Lafitte,
I welcomed you upon my muddy banks,
for rest, rest for those that dared,
and as you, casted as an undesirable,
constantly in chase, for they wanted,
no more than your bounty, your head,
to claim that they were the just,
and your efforts were just a pirate.
both sides, carrying its passage,
down to the Gulf,
Trees of ancients stand most bold,
upon both shores,
as I, a solitude Island,
stand in this midst,
an ancient grove of mixed trees,
as those that navigate both sides,
have often stop for the night, to sleep,
to fish upon my banks,
to gather thoughts as they rest.
As days breaks upon the eastern shore,
Niblett's Landing,
the rested set to travel,
further up this stream,
that flows so mighty,
whose mighty current,
carrying those pines, cypresses,
fallen to build,
cities upon those grass prairies,
and I, this island,
am the only keeper of the secrets,
shared around the circle of light of night,
of those that slept beneath, the trees.
OH Lafitte, OH Lafitte,
I will forever keep your secret,
as where you place your gold,
far, far away from those that sought,
those you helped their liberty,
now, they sent out searchers for you,
your usage immediately expired.
OH Lafitte, OH Lafitte,
I welcomed you upon my muddy banks,
for rest, rest for those that dared,
and as you, casted as an undesirable,
constantly in chase, for they wanted,
no more than your bounty, your head,
to claim that they were the just,
and your efforts were just a pirate.
3/04/2009
Caffertys' Fire
As stories of long have been told,
of youths rounders searching for gold,
taking trails westward,
some as prospectors, others
working as hands on the W “Z”,
Long Bar, or the Double Diamond,
some emblem, to place by their epitaph,
of their time, spent on the land.
We were a true crew of hands,
gathering at the Blood Bucket,
there upon Virginia City's hill,
with Mildred at the bar,
so much like Ms Kitty,
as rowdy as a crew,
as she handled at the “Branch”.
Rodger Dale, drifted across the plains,
stories told he had came from Lou Ana,
not in search of gold,
but to escape some hanging,
for his battle over a Redbone Girl,
at some border town bar.
She was a true beauty,
who sat with luring eyes,
with her skirt pulled above the knee,
and left hand placed gracefully on her thigh,
and the hands of Mo Mans Land,
could not resist taking her for a “dance”,
and possible even a chance.
Some French man, with a knife,
filled with cheap whiskey,
approached Rodger Dale,
one Saturday night,
threated to take his life,
spurting that “she” was his girl,
and was going to take her for a whirl.
Roger said just meet me outside,
where he pulled a gun,
and two shots fired,
the Frenchman fell into the mud,
and Rodger sped off in his truck,
never stopping till he got across Texas,
and working westward until he got to the Bucket.
It was at the bucket,
where we hands gathered round,
Rodger would take his chew,
and when Ms Mildred's back was turned,
challenged the crew that he could ring,
the cash drawer with a direct hit.
Mildred tired of his antics,
did bring to town,
a pastors plate,
and with the wink of an eye,
caught the hit,
telling Rodger, oh, not I.
After abundant cash was accumulated,
I headed for the famed Sonoma Hills,
building a milking farm,
and hiring hands from a far,
to automatic milk,
before the days light had a start.
An old injury
did come back around,
from a bad bronco, and luck,
this is life, and its value,
sometimes are not measured,
in British pounds.
As aches, keep me late in bed,
grateful of the “dairy” and the wealth,
that it gives forth,
with my wife having long been gone,
I have my blue heeler,
to keep me warm,
and those memories up in Virginia City,
and wonder of Cafferty and his outcome.
I have heard that he ended up in the Big City,
driving with four on the floor,
and a fifth under the seat,
it all caught up with him,
the Big City was not,
as charming as Reno,
for now some newscaster on CNN.
What of Mildred,
and where is she these days,
for it is told,
she took the accumulation,
there upon the pastors plate,
one final Saturday night,
returned it to Rodge Dales' face.
Turning saying boys,
I am retiring,
removing her apron,
walking out of their lives,
and some said she got a job,
over at the Mustang Ranch,
others told of seeing her in Vegas,
spinning fools dice around.
There are always those who would play,
thinking those snake eyes,
would tumble on every roll,
Mildred would earn her take,
As she reached out with her “rake”.
Rounders are always standing round,
telling tales of youth whose times spent,
but some never knew Ms Mildred,
Roger Dale or Cafferty with his fifth,
there upon that old ford floor,
when these hands Ms Mildred
would cry out, bar the door.
These were quite a crew,
that gather with Ms. Mildred,
once a week, on payday nights,
now long, to return to that life,
but those days are now gone,
its only memories that bring comfort,
as aches take over our bones.
of youths rounders searching for gold,
taking trails westward,
some as prospectors, others
working as hands on the W “Z”,
Long Bar, or the Double Diamond,
some emblem, to place by their epitaph,
of their time, spent on the land.
We were a true crew of hands,
gathering at the Blood Bucket,
there upon Virginia City's hill,
with Mildred at the bar,
so much like Ms Kitty,
as rowdy as a crew,
as she handled at the “Branch”.
Rodger Dale, drifted across the plains,
stories told he had came from Lou Ana,
not in search of gold,
but to escape some hanging,
for his battle over a Redbone Girl,
at some border town bar.
She was a true beauty,
who sat with luring eyes,
with her skirt pulled above the knee,
and left hand placed gracefully on her thigh,
and the hands of Mo Mans Land,
could not resist taking her for a “dance”,
and possible even a chance.
Some French man, with a knife,
filled with cheap whiskey,
approached Rodger Dale,
one Saturday night,
threated to take his life,
spurting that “she” was his girl,
and was going to take her for a whirl.
Roger said just meet me outside,
where he pulled a gun,
and two shots fired,
the Frenchman fell into the mud,
and Rodger sped off in his truck,
never stopping till he got across Texas,
and working westward until he got to the Bucket.
It was at the bucket,
where we hands gathered round,
Rodger would take his chew,
and when Ms Mildred's back was turned,
challenged the crew that he could ring,
the cash drawer with a direct hit.
Mildred tired of his antics,
did bring to town,
a pastors plate,
and with the wink of an eye,
caught the hit,
telling Rodger, oh, not I.
After abundant cash was accumulated,
I headed for the famed Sonoma Hills,
building a milking farm,
and hiring hands from a far,
to automatic milk,
before the days light had a start.
An old injury
did come back around,
from a bad bronco, and luck,
this is life, and its value,
sometimes are not measured,
in British pounds.
As aches, keep me late in bed,
grateful of the “dairy” and the wealth,
that it gives forth,
with my wife having long been gone,
I have my blue heeler,
to keep me warm,
and those memories up in Virginia City,
and wonder of Cafferty and his outcome.
I have heard that he ended up in the Big City,
driving with four on the floor,
and a fifth under the seat,
it all caught up with him,
the Big City was not,
as charming as Reno,
for now some newscaster on CNN.
What of Mildred,
and where is she these days,
for it is told,
she took the accumulation,
there upon the pastors plate,
one final Saturday night,
returned it to Rodge Dales' face.
Turning saying boys,
I am retiring,
removing her apron,
walking out of their lives,
and some said she got a job,
over at the Mustang Ranch,
others told of seeing her in Vegas,
spinning fools dice around.
There are always those who would play,
thinking those snake eyes,
would tumble on every roll,
Mildred would earn her take,
As she reached out with her “rake”.
Rounders are always standing round,
telling tales of youth whose times spent,
but some never knew Ms Mildred,
Roger Dale or Cafferty with his fifth,
there upon that old ford floor,
when these hands Ms Mildred
would cry out, bar the door.
These were quite a crew,
that gather with Ms. Mildred,
once a week, on payday nights,
now long, to return to that life,
but those days are now gone,
its only memories that bring comfort,
as aches take over our bones.
1/19/2009
Frank Gerald Foster
It is of these woods,
that my life's seeds were sown,
amid the evergreen pines,
who embraces the rare,
thou not indifferent,
fallen of snow.
Mighty oaks, barren as the fields,
whose harvest has been gathered,
and into the cribs stored,
for both famine and feast,
joyful of the latter,
dreadful of the former.
The poetic wolf,
comes scratch at the door,
as the creek brook,
itself has gone bare,
and no rabbits trapped,
in the snare are to be found.
Oaks, mighty as our souls,
reach out their tentacles,
to touch the sod below,
as squirrels scout about their storehouses,
amid the fallen branches for nuts,
in these hills of red clay.
A circle of evergreen pines,
thru the brown grass paint a masterpiece,
that no human eye could,
capture in lyric form,
ants whose red mounds fortresses,
retreat until the return of Springs warmth.
It is of this land,
and into these woods,
that my seeds were sown,
and that my ashes taken,
to merge, to be reborn,
in the light of that new morn.
that my life's seeds were sown,
amid the evergreen pines,
who embraces the rare,
thou not indifferent,
fallen of snow.
Mighty oaks, barren as the fields,
whose harvest has been gathered,
and into the cribs stored,
for both famine and feast,
joyful of the latter,
dreadful of the former.
The poetic wolf,
comes scratch at the door,
as the creek brook,
itself has gone bare,
and no rabbits trapped,
in the snare are to be found.
Oaks, mighty as our souls,
reach out their tentacles,
to touch the sod below,
as squirrels scout about their storehouses,
amid the fallen branches for nuts,
in these hills of red clay.
A circle of evergreen pines,
thru the brown grass paint a masterpiece,
that no human eye could,
capture in lyric form,
ants whose red mounds fortresses,
retreat until the return of Springs warmth.
It is of this land,
and into these woods,
that my seeds were sown,
and that my ashes taken,
to merge, to be reborn,
in the light of that new morn.
1/03/2009
THE MUSCADINE VINE TWISTS
JUST GRAB A VINE, COIL IT INTO A RIALTA, CLINCH YOUR SADDLE, PUT YOUR MUD BOOTS INTO THE STIRRUPS, THROW YOU HANDS HIGH AND RIDE, RIDE, RIDE
12/30/2008
Creeks of This Land
I have crossed the streams,
those flowing movements,
that come from beneath,
massive groves of Oaks,
trickling down the hillside,
merging with others,
whose journey leads,
to places yet seen.
I have drank from these streams,
whose merger became a name,
so often softly repeated,
dismounting from my steed,
to cup my hands,
to sup, of this nourishment,
to quince my thirst,
whereas,this grace,
I am satisfied.
The names become a chant,
that only the Eagle can sing,
as it flies overhead,
chased by the Hawk,
chased by the Crow,
with a small Sparrow,
trailing behind,
all traveling the red road.
Creeks, and not the native,
thou, without the natives,
all would have been diminished,
in the name of progress,
daring to preserve,
what the creator gave,
all, all of this land.
I ride, I look to the sky,
I dismount, cup my hands,
oh, I do remember thy name,
and feel most blessed,
that my parched lips,
have tasted thy cool waters,
oh Cypress, oh Caney,
oh Brushy, and the Oak,
and least not Bear.
To Sandy I sing my praise,
and dance by the shores of Quicksand,
knowing your dangers,
reaching only for berries,
that hang upon the vines,
eat of the Muscadines,
truly with a satisfied mind,
having riden pass the Cow,
and even Franks Branch,
to settle in the Pocket,
along with the panther and bear.
Oh sing of the waters,
flowing through this land,
these creeks, even Indian,
this still is but a few,
The Crow,the Trout, and so many,
that flow across this land,
we pass by once again,
and must give thanks.
those flowing movements,
that come from beneath,
massive groves of Oaks,
trickling down the hillside,
merging with others,
whose journey leads,
to places yet seen.
I have drank from these streams,
whose merger became a name,
so often softly repeated,
dismounting from my steed,
to cup my hands,
to sup, of this nourishment,
to quince my thirst,
whereas,this grace,
I am satisfied.
The names become a chant,
that only the Eagle can sing,
as it flies overhead,
chased by the Hawk,
chased by the Crow,
with a small Sparrow,
trailing behind,
all traveling the red road.
Creeks, and not the native,
thou, without the natives,
all would have been diminished,
in the name of progress,
daring to preserve,
what the creator gave,
all, all of this land.
I ride, I look to the sky,
I dismount, cup my hands,
oh, I do remember thy name,
and feel most blessed,
that my parched lips,
have tasted thy cool waters,
oh Cypress, oh Caney,
oh Brushy, and the Oak,
and least not Bear.
To Sandy I sing my praise,
and dance by the shores of Quicksand,
knowing your dangers,
reaching only for berries,
that hang upon the vines,
eat of the Muscadines,
truly with a satisfied mind,
having riden pass the Cow,
and even Franks Branch,
to settle in the Pocket,
along with the panther and bear.
Oh sing of the waters,
flowing through this land,
these creeks, even Indian,
this still is but a few,
The Crow,the Trout, and so many,
that flow across this land,
we pass by once again,
and must give thanks.
12/29/2008
milking tribute to Ole Joe Hennigan
PIG MILK CHEESE AND BAGELS
Pig-milk-cheese (well fermented) is most excellent when served on a true bagel...a sow does not give out much milk, about 4 ounces a day per sow. It is most difficult to milk one, a very labor intensive job...
Most efficient if utilizing children under the age of 3 to milk the sows, their hands are just the right size...I employed 200 under 3 years of age "domestic workers" to complete this job... the draw back is often they will fall asleep or crawl down by the sow and nurse.
This requires a very strong willed manager, who walks by using a riding crop to keep the hired workers at their highest productivity....I defer upon the suggest of milking AR Kansas Razorbacks, they often damage the workers with their teeth...I was wet nursed on a piney woods sow, thus, is the source of my great intellect.
Old Joe Hennigan, {(I was blessed to talk to Joe just after Franks passing, and reflected to him about how in the 8th grade someone had placed a tack in Franks chair during the lunch period…(not me)…
To see (big rear end) Frank rise was a sight to behold…a time when schools were safe both for the teachers and the students)}…Joe taught me Algebra at Fields/Hyatt, had the ability to spin…one was about how to milk a Poland China…take a milking stool and a tea cup…This memory has been embedded until this composition…To free the mind, is thus the most liberating experience one can experience…
Pig-milk-cheese (well fermented) is most excellent when served on a true bagel...a sow does not give out much milk, about 4 ounces a day per sow. It is most difficult to milk one, a very labor intensive job...
Most efficient if utilizing children under the age of 3 to milk the sows, their hands are just the right size...I employed 200 under 3 years of age "domestic workers" to complete this job... the draw back is often they will fall asleep or crawl down by the sow and nurse.
This requires a very strong willed manager, who walks by using a riding crop to keep the hired workers at their highest productivity....I defer upon the suggest of milking AR Kansas Razorbacks, they often damage the workers with their teeth...I was wet nursed on a piney woods sow, thus, is the source of my great intellect.
Old Joe Hennigan, {(I was blessed to talk to Joe just after Franks passing, and reflected to him about how in the 8th grade someone had placed a tack in Franks chair during the lunch period…(not me)…
To see (big rear end) Frank rise was a sight to behold…a time when schools were safe both for the teachers and the students)}…Joe taught me Algebra at Fields/Hyatt, had the ability to spin…one was about how to milk a Poland China…take a milking stool and a tea cup…This memory has been embedded until this composition…To free the mind, is thus the most liberating experience one can experience…
12/12/2008
A Short Tale of Geo, Hyper and Parallel
A short tale of Geo, Hyper, and Parallel
and how they attempted to fool Euclid, and Descartes,
by sneaking off from school and across its yard
Once upon a late Spring Evening,
the classroom suddenly seemed vacated,
Euclid was up at the board,
talking about this and that,
turning around, discovering his best was a miss,
he turned seeing that Calculus,
was dozing on the back row,
notorious for being an instigator,
yet, he was there.
Euclid called for the truant officer,
sending him to look,
with him finding the trio,
down by the duck pond.
He thus asked of Geo,
why he was not in school,
Geo me try,
he did reply,
queried of Parallel,
oh, do you want me,
to hand you a line,
last was Hyper,
with the look of his eyes,
the officer knew he was in space.
By the neck,
the trio was hauled to old Descartes,
the principal and who had the rule,
saying to Geo Me try,
next speaking,
about Parallel Lines,
seeing that Hyper
was in space,
time was a waste.
Where ever we go in life,
we will encounter this trio,
Geo Me try,
Parallel Lines,
and Hyper Space,
they will always play with our minds,
thanks to Ms Stein and her roses,
we still can rhyme.
and how they attempted to fool Euclid, and Descartes,
by sneaking off from school and across its yard
Once upon a late Spring Evening,
the classroom suddenly seemed vacated,
Euclid was up at the board,
talking about this and that,
turning around, discovering his best was a miss,
he turned seeing that Calculus,
was dozing on the back row,
notorious for being an instigator,
yet, he was there.
Euclid called for the truant officer,
sending him to look,
with him finding the trio,
down by the duck pond.
He thus asked of Geo,
why he was not in school,
Geo me try,
he did reply,
queried of Parallel,
oh, do you want me,
to hand you a line,
last was Hyper,
with the look of his eyes,
the officer knew he was in space.
By the neck,
the trio was hauled to old Descartes,
the principal and who had the rule,
saying to Geo Me try,
next speaking,
about Parallel Lines,
seeing that Hyper
was in space,
time was a waste.
Where ever we go in life,
we will encounter this trio,
Geo Me try,
Parallel Lines,
and Hyper Space,
they will always play with our minds,
thanks to Ms Stein and her roses,
we still can rhyme.
12/05/2008
Goin' Teaux Grandma's for Christmas
Goin Teaux Grandmas for Christmas
The year was '48,
aheadin' to Grandmas for Christmas,
drivin' through the woods,
passin' those giant pines,
crossin' so many streams,
mama called them out,
all along that route,
here's the Atachafayla,
and then the wide Mississippi,
names, we could not speak,
words that made our tounges twist,
then she cried here's Puschatap creek,
her excitement showed in her cheeks,
children, we close to mama's,
oh, how it seemed it been a week.
for in a '42 Ford to Grandma's,
and how papa did drive.
Oh how our head was full of treats,
that only grandma could spread,
crossin the Huey P Long bridge,
papa sounded like a preacher,
at a piney woods pulpit,
just a talkin' about that savior,
ole Huey P, and did he speak,
mama exclaiming to papa,
lets save that sermon for next week.
There in Red Baton town,
hitting the streets,
we stopped to take a peek,
there was no time to spend,
we were herded again,
we are not piney woods cattle,
wild upon the range,
still mama shoved us it seems,
back into that '42 Ford,
and onto US 190,
Eastward to grandma's,
there,we were bound.
Racing through the picket gate,
like a herd of piney woods cattle,
wild upon the range,
running about myrtle bush,
racing up the steps,
and there stood grandpa,
upon the front stoop,
he looked so grand,
grandma's house was smellin,
the goose was acookin,
she had bowls of sweet tators,
for us to peel,
if we were to eat,
ole grandma had a deal,
we had to earn our keep.
Don't make a mess,
if you want to partake,
of this Christmas feast,
with smell of bake goose,
deep dark and sweet,
sat that pecan pie,
of Grandpa Lowe's Thanksgivings pecans,
that Grandpa had shelled,
be bragged, for over a week,
and did Grandma cook,
she was part Fornea,
loved passin' chicory coffee round,
is there more to say,
all her eating,
placed so gracefully,
upon that table round,
with her cornbread dressing,
would we make a mess,
no, not for Grandma's tables spread.
Uncle Charles and Uncle James,
gifts they did bring,
for they had just returned,
from that foreign war,
being proud of their service,
we greeted them on the porch,
with screams of excitement,
and of treasured joy,
this we could not control,
we were mere children,
with so much to behold.
After endless hours,
to us children it did seem,
we finally set upon cane woven chairs,
and how did ours eyes feast,
for this was a true spread,
Grandpa's head started to bow,
our hands settled down,
for we were no longer wild cattle,
we wanted to eat of this feast,
as grace was given,
seems like an hour,
as our taste buds quivered,
to savor on this feast.
Oh, for once again,
to travel to Grandma's,
this would be a joy,
as Grandma now,
sings in heavens choir,
instead, it's these memories,
precious and priceless in name,
ever so thankful,
of those whose table awaited,
for a herd of piney woods cattle,
to partake of this holiday feast,
everlasting memories of childhood,
these,will never cease.
<
The year was '48,
aheadin' to Grandmas for Christmas,
drivin' through the woods,
passin' those giant pines,
crossin' so many streams,
mama called them out,
all along that route,
here's the Atachafayla,
and then the wide Mississippi,
names, we could not speak,
words that made our tounges twist,
then she cried here's Puschatap creek,
her excitement showed in her cheeks,
children, we close to mama's,
oh, how it seemed it been a week.
for in a '42 Ford to Grandma's,
and how papa did drive.
Oh how our head was full of treats,
that only grandma could spread,
crossin the Huey P Long bridge,
papa sounded like a preacher,
at a piney woods pulpit,
just a talkin' about that savior,
ole Huey P, and did he speak,
mama exclaiming to papa,
lets save that sermon for next week.
There in Red Baton town,
hitting the streets,
we stopped to take a peek,
there was no time to spend,
we were herded again,
we are not piney woods cattle,
wild upon the range,
still mama shoved us it seems,
back into that '42 Ford,
and onto US 190,
Eastward to grandma's,
there,we were bound.
Racing through the picket gate,
like a herd of piney woods cattle,
wild upon the range,
running about myrtle bush,
racing up the steps,
and there stood grandpa,
upon the front stoop,
he looked so grand,
grandma's house was smellin,
the goose was acookin,
she had bowls of sweet tators,
for us to peel,
if we were to eat,
ole grandma had a deal,
we had to earn our keep.
Don't make a mess,
if you want to partake,
of this Christmas feast,
with smell of bake goose,
deep dark and sweet,
sat that pecan pie,
of Grandpa Lowe's Thanksgivings pecans,
that Grandpa had shelled,
be bragged, for over a week,
and did Grandma cook,
she was part Fornea,
loved passin' chicory coffee round,
is there more to say,
all her eating,
placed so gracefully,
upon that table round,
with her cornbread dressing,
would we make a mess,
no, not for Grandma's tables spread.
Uncle Charles and Uncle James,
gifts they did bring,
for they had just returned,
from that foreign war,
being proud of their service,
we greeted them on the porch,
with screams of excitement,
and of treasured joy,
this we could not control,
we were mere children,
with so much to behold.
After endless hours,
to us children it did seem,
we finally set upon cane woven chairs,
and how did ours eyes feast,
for this was a true spread,
Grandpa's head started to bow,
our hands settled down,
for we were no longer wild cattle,
we wanted to eat of this feast,
as grace was given,
seems like an hour,
as our taste buds quivered,
to savor on this feast.
Oh, for once again,
to travel to Grandma's,
this would be a joy,
as Grandma now,
sings in heavens choir,
instead, it's these memories,
precious and priceless in name,
ever so thankful,
of those whose table awaited,
for a herd of piney woods cattle,
to partake of this holiday feast,
everlasting memories of childhood,
these,will never cease.
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