Barefoot boy goin’ down the road
On his way to the fishin’ hole.
Faded overalls and an old straw hat,
‘Cross his shoulder a wooden pole.
Beat-up tin can filled with worms
Dug from the earth sun-warmed.
Bulge in his pocket says cookies for lunch.
A water canteen on his arm.
New beagle puppy pads alongside,
Turnin’ off to sniff now and then,
An off-key tune whistled soft and low
Drifts away as the boy rounds the bend.
I can see again how it was with me,
When I didn’t have cares by the load,
When I was a barefoot farmer’s son,
Walkin’ down that fishin’ hole road.
Dagnabbit! I think I’ll grab my hat,
And hunt up my old cane pole.
I just might help him whistle that tune,
When I meet him at the fishin’ hole.