Back in the Sixties we lived in the sticks,
Out on Route One, Box Thirty-Six.
We made our abode at the end of the road,
Where nature bestowed and Beaver Creek flowed.
With Montana skies, sunny and blue.
Gone were the Blackfeet, the Cree and the Sioux.
Out in the back were a horse and a mule,
A shaggy old dog with a bit of a drool.
A cast iron stove to ward off the cold,
Where Blizzards and Chinooks often unfold.
Up on the hill was an old frontier fort,
Where Buffalo Soldiers used to report.
Took Foley’s bus to the High School,
Should have started a little car-pool.
The Rocky Boy bus was faster than us,
How we did fuss eatin’ their dust.
Bought an old Ford and headed for town,
Watched the Ponies score a touchdown.
Got my diploma, then served in the Corps,
Ended up on some Far Eastern shore.
Sometimes I visit the old neighborhood,
And I have to say that life has been good.
But often I wish I still got my kicks,
Out on Route One, Box Thirty-Six.
LDT October 14, ‘23
Outlaws, Outrages and Outright Lies 