A Chasm In Soup Creek

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.”