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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