when i was in Chicago and i was on the run, they wouldn't sell me whiskey and they wouldn't sell me rum. They put me in the county jail to gaze against the wall. where the bed bugs and the cooties were having a game of ball. The score was ought to nothing, the bed bugs were ahead the cooties hit a home-run that knocked me out of bed.

Then something about going down to breakfast and having a cup of coffee or something. That is all I can remember. My father used to love these type poems and he would say it to me   its was like a story... well, it is a story. He also liked poems like the ones about the yukon, like the story of sam mc gee... about a guy who dies and they cremate him bc they promised they would and as old Sam is being cremated he shouts for them to shut the door for fear you ll let in the cold... first time i been warm since i left old Tennessee.