Copyright 1995-2005 - Chuck Pritchard

POETS, BARDS & LIARS

I wish my old John B. could talk.

It'd tell you of days gone by,

Of days pure fun and days pure hell,

All long gone to my mind's eye.

You'd hear of rain that fell in sheets,

And wind that blew and blew,

The joy of feeling the campfire's heat,

When a winter day's work is fin'ly through.

This hat knows days of a million smiles,

And days of nary a one.

The feeling of settin' on the back of my head,

When at last a hard job's done.

It knows the story of my wife's first kiss,

And her two-step wedding dance.

It hid my eyes the night I cried,

'Cause she gave me a second chance.

It got soppin' wet from the inside out,

On a day of buckin' hay.

It gets mournful when it's swapped for the black,

'Cause a good friend passed away.

I've heard it "yelp" when it's slapped on a bar,

When the time comes to take a stand.

And I swear, by golly, I've felt it smile,

When I'm shakin' an old friends hand.

It'll never forget the steam and patience,

When I shaped it up just right.

Nor the night, with worry, I 'bout wrung it to pieces,

You see, my boy was born that night.

I've thought of throwin' it away sometimes.

I'd look fine in a brand new hat.

But that'd be like abandoning a friend,

A damn good friend at that.

So, I s'pose I'll keep this battered gray lid,

Until my days are through.

And, when I die, please bury it with me,

I'm sure my hat would want that, too.