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All heads are bowed in Soup Creek today
The town’s elder statesman has passed on his way
A gentleman true whose tongue wasn’t forked
To whom people listened whenever he talked 

But when others spoke he would cheer or applaud
Whatever their nation, whomever their Lord
His words rarely barbed and only when apt 
And usually only when friends were attacked

The name of this man, held so high in the rankings
None other than L (call me Milt) Milton Hankins
A man of belief with a deep ingrained faith
Who found time aplenty for each stray and waif

It’s quiet today in the town of Soup Creek
There’s a humungous chasm… so to speak 
It’s like something’s missing for one and for all
It’s like someone’s stolen the church and town hall

Soup Creek, a town with its spirit ripped out
But Milton left town as a man in no doubt 
That Soup Creek would thrive on his foundations laid
His legacy being the friends that he’d made

A sage and a mentor whose work here is done
A scribe with adventures, brand new, just begun
I dreamed in the night that a light lit his land
And his good lady wife said, “Milt, take my hand.”

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