Oh, the leaves are liquid yellow
As we ride on through Custer Park,
In search of that old Badger Hole:
Home of the poet Badger Clark.
Yes, we come to step back in time—
It’s a historic rule of thumb—
Where the city does not crowd you,
And man can be scattered some.
The old cabin now sits empty—
A last poetic monument—
Proving that words can still live on
Where men have lived and come and went.