Islander Girl

A small craft set to sea.

Three men are sailing by

When a beautifully

Brown-haired, tan mystery

Catches their eye.

Naked above the waist,

Below but a simple skirt.

Hips swish back and forth

With the ocean’s rhythmic roar.

This girl on sandy dirt,

With perfumed-flowered hair,

Shimmering shiny lips,

Gold blossoms about her neck,

Brings about a shipwreck.

Down to the sea in ships.

Illustration: source unknown

Promiseland Road

It is a mighty tough road I have traveled down.

A mighty tough road covering mighty tough ground.

I looked in my pocket and not a cent of “jack”.

I’m still mighty grateful for the shirt on my back.

            It is a mighty rough road to the promise land,

            And you can’t climb the hills without a helping hand.

            It is a mighty tough road to the promise land.

It’s a tough lot of work I have done here and there.

Loading tomatoes, I have lifted up my share.

I have peddled papers, toted cleanser about.

Why, I have even helped clean the forest ground out.

            It is a mighty rough road to the promise land,

            And you can’t climb the hills without a helping hand.

            It is a mighty tough road to the promise land.

Oh, I have had a woman in many a town,

And it is many a woman has let me down,

But the woman I got now will ever remain.

It is a mighty rough road, but I’m glad I came.

            It is a mighty rough road to the promise land,

            And you can’t climb the hills without a helping hand.

            It is a mighty tough road to the promise land.

If in the far off future ever I get rich,

I doubt that that could really ever cure my itch

To follow the unknown path where the way is rough,

‘Cause the reward is Heaven, but the road is tough.

            It is a mighty rough road to the promise land,

            And you can’t climb the hills without a helping hand.

            It is a mighty tough road to the promise land.

Mill Town

This mill is rusty,

The gears will not run.

The little creek is dried up.

No work can be done.

The grain has long been dead,

The wheel is worn away.

The winds blow too harshly

Throughout the night and day.

This town is old,

The streets each cracked and tore.

The factories are moving out,

The people here are poor.

These houses all need painting,

Each is gray with age.

Some historian is only waiting

To write the final page.

This boy is man,

Now bent and old and tired.

Who’s home is in this town.

It was where he was sired.

These legs go shaky when he stands,

There is palsy in these hands.

When he dies and is buried,

He asks, “bury me on these lands.”

This land is cold.

Fall leaves have all but fell.

We’re in for a bitter winter

Is what the almanacs foretell.

This mill is rusty,

This town, this man, this day is gray,

But it is here he was born

And it is here he will stay.