OLD HEN JONES

Ever hear of ol’ Hen Jones,

Grizzled skin an’ rack-a-bones,

Lives up under Miler’s Hill,

‘Crost there from the cider mill?

Never heard of Henry, what?

Then you’ve missed an awful lot,

‘Cuz ol’ Hen he can’t be beat

In the hull blamed county seat!

Henry Jones lives all alone,

Cold, unfeelin’ as a stone;

Shrewd an’ stingy, as kin be,

With a shady pedergree.

No one ever seen him smile –

Allus seemed too full o’ bile.

Never heard him laugh a mite -

Allus keeps his mouth shet tight.

“Ol Hen Jones is ‘bout as bad

As they make ‘em,” so says dad.

Dad had orter know right well,

‘Cuz he’s known him quite a spell.

He’d some dealin’s with ol’ Hen

When the two wuz younger men.

“Ol’ Hen stung me,” dad says he,

“Wussin’ any bumble bee!”

Ol’ Hen Jones is awful mean,

Meanest skunk wuz ever seen;

Never done a might o’ good

In this quiet neighborhood.

Never has a word to say,

Minds his bisniz ev’ry day;

Jest keeps to himself, that’s why

People call him mean an’ sly!

                        JOE CONE

June 15, 1914