The Blanket Stiff
By Gifford and Whitney.
The Western trail is a gittin’ dim;
The Sage-brush seems unreal;
My insides’re weak and gittin’ slim.
Sure wished I had a meal.
My feet are growin’ weary;
My head is hangin’ low;
My eyes are a lookin’ teary.
Gawd! But it’s hard to go.
There’s two thousand ties to a mile,
And fifty more miles to go.
I’ve counted those ties with a smile,
Keeps time from a goin’ so slow.
Now—they seem a mile apart.
I can’t help feelin’ cold.
Got an achin’ down around my heart
I guess—I’m a gettin’—old.
Know what the gangs a doin’ now,
Way down in Elephant Slough.
They’re sittin’ around a can o’ chow
Helpin’ themselves tuh stew.
I kid myself, I ain’t et fer a week,
But I know it’s dang sight more.
My throat is dry—my insides squeak—
I’m hungry—clean to th’ core.
I ain’t th’ kind that’ll stoop to yell,
When bad luck comes my way.
I’ve lived and sinned. I’m bound for Hell.
But—guess—I’ll kneel and pray.
The Bo got down on rough worn ties;
Lifted his head in prayer,
And knelt there pleading to the skies—
A whistle sounded through the air.
The Hobo heard and tried to rise,
Saw the train comin’ fast.
His muscles failed—and from the ties,
He welcomed this—the last.
It’s only a blanket—stiff ye hit,
Sent another bum to Hell.
Had I better report on it?
I guess I might as well.
No, Con, don’t make out no report.
Let’s plant him by the steel.
The Bum’s bound for an unknown port,
And tracks will make it real.
The Western trail is a gittin’ black.
It’s time we moved along.
They buried him beside the track—
The hot western wind for the psalm.
The Bo woke up in a nice white gown;
Clean, just like he’d had a bath.
Instead of the ties that held him down
He followed a golden path.
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