It was an old stump where he’d sit, whittle, whistle, sing and spit, cross his legs then lean down long to scratch the head of his old hound dog,
Bib overalls, his hair black, slicked back, he’d near tumble over when a joke he’d crack.
Lines on his face told his stories in life, a likable fellow with a barrow knife.
Folks knew his name and called him by Jep,
Seems he’d grown up near the railroad tracks.
A legend of sorts he’d hunted roadmen and had a mean look under his toothless grin,
A Colt on his left side he’d clean with a rag and reminisce of times when he wore a deputy’s badge.
Said he’d been there when Clyde Barrow was killed,
And Parker was pretty in that car laying still.
Told us he’d been shot in an ambush one night,
But the boys he’d been hunting went down in the fight,
They’d robbed a bank in Cape Gerado he thought,
They weren’t very old,
Maybe 19 was all.
Then he’d grin and lean back, a wooden match in parched lips,
And asked if anybody just might have a swig.
Said he was thirsty from sitting under that tree,
That he liked Bourbon whiskey couldn’t stand sweet tea.
Then go on telling stories about gangsters in his past,
And day’s when he rode with Eliot Ness.
Then around come sundown he’d light up a stick, grab his old hound,
And head down the dirt road to the dark side of town.
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