POETRY AND HAY

Dick Wightman drops in ev’ry day
To talk of poetry an’ hay.
Dick is a poet most refined,
A farmer only in his mind.
He talks of verse his soul to free,
Of hay because it pleases me.
An’ thus an hour we while away
With pipe an’ poetry an’ hay.

Dick Wightman is a kindred soul
Who’s got his name upon the scroll;
He’s also got a touring car,
An’ puffs a fifteen cent cigar!
He’s got a dog, a rod an’ gun,
An’ has a lot o’ healthy fun;
He has some leisure every day—
I have to work an’ cut my hay.

Dick Wightman brings me cheer each time
He stops to talk of hay an’ rhyme;
My clouds go scuddin’ from the shore
When he comes smilin’ through the door.
An’ though I have my hay to cut,
An’ sometimes git deep in the rut,
I know my ol’ scythe cuts more free
‘Cuz Dick has smoked a pipe with me!

June 15, 1914