 Second Month's ground ~~~ cold and hard ~~~ ol' Pete had breathed his last... Yon' mornin' sun tinged the sky... Down the road... Terry to Billie Joe, whose knees with recent replacements, unable to shovel the grave for ol' Pete... "Ma backhoe don't work, cain't git it ta run"... Overall clad with flowin' white beard, He took BJ's shovel in hand, "We've all lost our dawgs over the years", Understandin' our eyes moist with tears. ~~~~ Ol' Pete showed up on the farm one day, Skin 'n' bones, tick 'n' flea infested, Picked forty off... them ol' fat ticks, Pete mo-o-o-oaned and seemed to like it. Truth be told his many scars did truly tell...he did. Ol' Pete liked us, he liked the farm, A good Southern dawg was he, He laid on the porch or under't, coolin' off from the dawg's day heat. Heard a guinea fowl one Spring day, she was held in ol' Pete's mouth, Picked up a broom near the back porch door, That was all it took...the guinea Pete dropped, From then on out... the farm fowl were bothered no more. ~~~~ The day had come to bury ol' Pete in our cat 'n' dawg cemetery, ~~~~ Wrapped him in Billie Joe's ol' plaid coat, Which Pete was wont to lay on, Buttoned him up with arms wrapped round, We tucked him in and laid him down... In his forever bed. We covered him up with Southern sod, Close to his buddies, Ginger, Riley and Rob... From my kitchen sink I see where they lay, our pets graves... Behind the white fence and the ol' green gate. Ponderin's on Ol' Pete...
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