Poetry

by Pete Holly

Men,be they heroes or scoudrels,are still men just the same,
They do not act as angels,but roam upon the plain,
One he had a buckskin coat,an Indian a Bearskin floor,
He had place to call a home but it did not have a door,
Summer was the jamboree,when all of them would meet,
Some took home a wife or two,but others fell to defeat,
Everything they had was lost,and walked away upon barefeet,
But not to worry for so long,for the next men came building streets-