Out back was an old weep'n willow tree
with four or five chairs underneath...
And the ground was bare where Gibb had sat
as he scrubbed away the grass with his feet.
Ole Gibb depended on a government check
as his only security...
He drank Thunderbird wine for breakfast
ever morn'n underneath the old tree.
The railroad ran close by where he lived
and provided conversation now and then...
I've seen Gibb sit and count the cars go'n by
as he sat drink'n wine with his friends.
And I remember the year he turned sixty-five
in the winter of seventy-eight...
Ole Gibb and a bottle of Thuderbird wine
got together just to celebrate.
He lived in a ragged old camper shell
and his only transportaion was his feet...
So he staggered cross the tracks in the even'n time
to the store to get a little bite to eat.
Everyone in town that knew the old man
said all he wanted was his wine...
And I often wonder what had happened in his life
to make 'em want to drink all the time.
But I guess some things we just never know
and they might be just as well left alone...
Yet I wonder if he still gets his Thunderbird wine
since the Lord called my ole buddy home.
"Poor Boy" ©2004 firstname.lastname@example.org All rights reserved.
Gary Reynolds (AKA) dr_tigger
September 09, 2004