It was long my desire to sit down by the fire
and relax as a day slips away,
and my wish came to pass when I once went to mass
back in springtime; quite possibly May.
Folks from near and afar came by horse, some by car,
but the tent where the preacherman preached
was too small to hold all, crammed in tight wall to wall,
still we bellowed out hymn-song-n-screech.
When our sins were corrected and tithes all collected
and the milling around had begun,
Quentin Phillips, the Sharkey, Packrat Miller and Darky,
we all figgered to have us some fun.
First we took us a swallow ‘ hooch from Hanover Hollow
that Quentin had brought in his kit ‘
for to toast the good preacher, and why not? ‘ our school teacher
whom most folks around town called Miss Fitt.
Then we mounted our ponies to avoid ceremonies
yon preacher might still have in mind;
we headed for Slater’s where we ate steak-n-taters,
what a meal ‘ it was one of a kind!
Fresh coffee was brewing while we sat there a-chewing,
and jawing ‘bout this-that-n-t’other,
when along comes this portion of one fine contortion ‘
exquisite! Created by Slater’s own mother.
Well, we wiped down our faces to eliminate traces
of butter and leftover things;
as we settled our tally I espied Bill McNally
who invited us over for drinks.
Bill had a full bottle of Greek Aristotle ‘
which we uncorked with highest esteem
since that name was familiar as a phyloso-filliar
or some sort of sharp-wit supreme.
Now, Bill was a loner, but also the owner
of a spread down the prairie a waze
and he had a line cabin I could have for the grabin
if I wanted it ‘ where the buffalo graze.
With little persuasion I took that occasion
and moved what few items I own.
What a fine, cozy home where the buffalo roam,
I’m a king on a gopher-furred throne.