The Ballad of Emory Schmid
What kind of kid was Emory Schmid?
He only did what he had to did,
and when he done what had to be done,
he called it a day, that son of a gun.
He burned both candle ends down to the wick,
and he got hisself in trouble, thick.
No one knew what made him tick.
He warn't born with the sense of a brick.
I met him once on the Montana grass.
Knee-high, he was, to a grasshopper's ass,
and I asked him plainly, right out flat,
but he only just stared and spat.
Whatever it was he done or did,
we must remember, he was just a kid.
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