Palace In They Popple; MOOD TV # 2046 (Go to 27:00 in video for poem)
Donated
by Billie
Pett
Palace in the Popple
It's a smokey raunchy
boar's nest,
with
an unswept drafty floor,
And pillow ticking
curtains,
with
knife scars on the floor.
The smell of a pine
knot fire,
from
a stovepipe that's come loose,
Mingles sweetly
with the bootgrease,
and
the copenhagen snoose.
There are workworn
.30-.30's
with
battered steel stocks,
And drying lines
of longjohns,
and
of steaming pungent socks.
There's a table for
the bloody four,
and
their game of two card draw,
And there's deep
and dreamless sleeping,
on bunkticks
filled with straw.
Ed and Lawrence, by
the stove,
their
gun talk loud and hot,
And Rob, has drawn
a pair of kings,
and
raking in the pot.
Harvey's drafted
again as cook,
he's
peeling spuds for stew,
While Gus, wanders
in baggy pants,
receiting
Dan McGrew.
Nowhere on earth
is fire so warm,
nor
coffee so infernal,
Or whiskers stiff
or jokes so rich
nor
hope blooms so eternal.
A man can live for
a solid week,
in the
same old underbritches,
He can walk like
a man, spit where he wants,
and
scratch himself where he itches
I tell you boys there's
no place else,
where
I'd rather be come Fall,
Where I eat like
a bear and sing like a wolf,
And
feel like I'm Bull Pine tall.
In that raunchy cabin
out in the bush,
in the
land of the Raven n Loon,
With a tracking
snow lying new to the ground,
at the
end of the rutting moon.
Circa 1905
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