The Ballad of Prospector Pete
Prospector Pete had roamed the hills fer years searchin' fer some gold.
He and his faithful burro, Fred, were both growin' weary and old.
He'd looked fer color in many a mountain and stream in Colorado,
Lookin' fer that mother lode, that elusive vein, his own El Dorado.
Oh, he'd found a few nuggets here and there, but didn't 'mount to much.
Those he did find he'd blown on gamblin', women, whiskey and such.
Pete would save a bag of dust or two from his many wanton toots,
To grubstake himself to re-supply his jeans, shovels and boots.
He staked claims 'long ripplin' streams and left many holes 'long the way.
The mountains and valleys are pocked with his diggin's to this very day!
He'd come up dry, nothin' there and move on to more appealin' pickin's,
Burrowin' and pannin' with elbows flyin' workin' like the dickens!
Pete would winter in his cabin 'til spring then he'd begin his annual quest,
Packin' his tools on long-sufferin' Fred and head fer the hills to the west.
If he didn't find that elusive bonanza this year he swore that he'd retire,
To his cabin at the foot of Mount Pisgah and enjoy the blazin' fire.
Time passed and Pete wasn't seen 'round town much anymore.
On a wintry day his pals found him froze to death upon his cabin floor!
They dug Pete's grave and buried him just outside his cabin door.
Eureka! Six feet down was that vein of gold that he'd been a-lookin' for!
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