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Poem	A pote is sure a goofy guy; He ain't got guts like you or I To tell the score; He ain't goy gumption 'nuff to know The game of life's to get the dough, Then get some more. Take Brother Bill, he used to be The big shot of the family, The first at school; But since about a year ago, Through readin' Longfeller and Poe, He's most a fool. He mopes around with dimwit stare; You might as well jest not be there, The way he looks; You'd think he shuns the human race, The how he buries down his face In highbrow books. I've seen him stand for near an hour, Jest starin' at a simple flower - Sich waste o' time; The scribblin' on an envelope . . . Why, most of all his silly dope Don't even rhyme. Now Brother's Jim's an engineer, And Brother Tim's a bank cashier, While I keep store; Yet Bill, the brightest of the flock, Might be a lawyer or a doc, And then some more. But no, he moons and loafs about, As if he tried to figger out Why skies are blue; Instead o' gittin' down to grips Wi' life an' stackin' up the chips Like me an' you. * * * * * * * * * * Well, since them final lines I wrote, We're mournin' for our Brother Pote: Bill crossed the sea And solved his problem with the beat, For now he lies in peace and rest In Normandie. He died the bravest of the brave, And here I'm standin' by his grave So far from home; With just a wooden cross to tell How in the blaze of battle hell As gloriously there he fell - Bill wrote his "pome".
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