The Rustic Old Miner
The Rustic Old Miner
He lived in the hills in a little shack
traveled he slowly back and forth.
Heavy load resting upon his weary back
back to his mountain in far North.
Had no family that he dare call his own
solitary soul living life lonely.
Amid wild animals and hard mountain stone
thought about love but once only!
Love held no candle to his mountain view
where sun rose but ever so slowly.
Had all his old tools, needed nothing new
one old bible and it was very holy.
He might do with just one worn out pick
dawn to dark, hard stones he broke.
Staying tough and very hard was the trick
quick into work every morn he woke.
He felt no rough weather deep in his mine
just sweat and pains, stone breaking.
No complaints, his life to him just fine
never one to be lousy belly-aching.
Years flew by and he found a little gold
life and those views held him fast.
One cool morn he woke to find himself old
never dreaming, it could be his last.
Afternoon rolled on, his head was spinning
that moment, his last breath taken.
Had he known, he would have called it winning
life over, soul had just been fakin'.
R.J. Lindley
April 24th , 1975
Note- From my private journal.
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015
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