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Pastimes : Music Jukebox -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Lady Lurksalot who wrote (1382)	3/17/2006 5:49:47 PM
From: ManyMoose	Respond to of 32399

This is not a song, but it's one of the first poems I ever committed to memory, and it has a very deep meaning to me. Meat In The Pot by Paul Croy I’ve a lever action carbine there a hangin’ on the wall, And it’s sixteen years of service she has seen; Her steel is all worn shiny and her stock and grip are marred, But her rifled bore will polish bright and clean. I’ve packed her till I miss her when I take a trip without her, And leave her hang’ home upon her rack, And like as not I’ll need her to kill some sneakin’ varmint That seems to know I’ve left her at the shack. I’ve packed her on a thousand hunts, in clear and fallin’weather, And the blame for missin’s mine to place it fair, For there’s never been an instance when she failed to “meat the pot” If I crooked my trigger finger sightin’ hair. I’ve sort of got a notion that she feels the same as me, And thrills when game is close and up the wind; And I find myself a-talkin’ to her mostly of an evenin’, When I’m lonesome and the the light of day has dimmed. There’s a fund of tallish stories I could tell of trails we’ve traveled, But they’d mostly need her word to prove them so, And she never talks of conquests she and I have taken, But backs her little thunders up with blood upon the show. Well, there’s no more meat a-hangin. from the rafter on the porch, But there’s plenty on the ridge above the shack; So we’ll angle up the timbered slope and jump them where they’re bedded, And roll us up another set of tracks.