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Old Pete

Edward S. Sorenson

We found him under a wilga tree,
Just as he’d lain for a snooze, maybe,
Though never a shred on his bones had he.

The ants had cleaned him from head to feet;
All that was left lay there complete,
Dried and bleached by the summer heat.

Between his teeth was his pipe awry;
And from its socket his one glass eye
Was starin’ up at the brazen sky.

‘Twas Pete McLucky! Tom, Turk and Jim
Took off their hats and they swore to him,
As he smoked mayhap with the seraphim.

We laid the frame on a sheet of bark
With care as though it still held a spark,
For “Mind his pipe!” was a mate’s remark.

And we bore him home to a rocky cave,
And built it up for his box and grave
And monument where the wilgas wave.

Then on the rock that his tomb became,
In deep, bold letters they carved his name:
“Pete McLucky—white and game.”

With pipe still gripped as did Fates ordain,
There rests old Pete in his wild domain,
For ever snug from the wind and rain.

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