‘Ol Joe, you could say, was a man’s man.
With regaling stories of the wild west.
Of an era where right and wrong were clear,
Quick with a joke, full of zest.
Now, ‘ol Joe, he came to town,
But never much cared for fightin’.
Said he’d just as soon sit content,
Picked up a pen, started writin’.
Ne’er did he tire, kept straight to his work,
As volume after volume he twisted.
Created more than any abacus could tally,
Yet few, if any, e’er knew he existed.
‘Course ‘ol Joe was never in it for fame.
And none was in the cards,
Save for an elite misfit fan club.
(Miss Management sends her regards.)
Joe kept a churnin’ page after page,
While the crew hung on every word,
But the world’s not filled with Joes-
As you know- the idea’s utterly absurd.
And the eyes, they eventually drifted-
Because there’re battles to fight out west-
And eventually ‘ol Joe put his pen down.
Decided ‘twas time for a rest.
As all cowboys are wont to do,
and perhaps a certain laureate,
‘Ol Joe- wordlessly as a first-
Rode off into the sunset.
Now, nobody ever heard another word from Joe,
And surely that’s how he wanted it to be.
Yet some believe his ghost still haunts these parts,
A wandering soul with words to set free.
If you listen close late at night,
You won’t hear him, but you may see.
And if that’s, so, I kindly ask-
Please send him ‘round to me.
If words are too big of request,
Then the fault is understood.
Be well, carry on, dear friend,
And live a life that’s good.
