|Share page||Visit Us On FB|
78 OTHER VERSE
And I hear the patter of wee small feet, That fitted it when it was new,
But all that's left is the memory sweet And the little worn out shoe.
Thar ain't no poetry, much, in this, But I think I've got the clue
To a road that leads to a mite of bliss, If I follow this baby shoe.
To say that the hair of young Sandy McCann Was auburn, was putting it fine, for the man Had a head that just blazed, like the bird that
we see A 'driving his bill in the cottonwood tree. But Sandy delighted to stray from his home And wander about 'neath the blue ether dome.
'Twas thus it once happened, when near his life's
prime, That Sandy was gone such a very long time— A decade or more—that his business and kin Much needed to know of the parts he was in. And thus the great search was so ably begun To find the locale of the wandering one.