Hobo Miner.

Author:Lazure, Joe
Position:Poems of Censure and Condemnation - Poem

Hobo Miner Dear old Arizon, I love thy rocky hills, But how often have I cursed thee when I had to make long "drills" Across the barren sandy wastes, and often do I think Of the many rivers I have crossed and could not get a drink. I could tell you "hard luck stories" of long trails and blistered feet, The memories of them make me dry, "Come on, Pard, it's my treat." What will I drink? you ask me. Why, I'll drink the same old thing That puts us miners on the bum and keeps us on the "wing," That makes these "Birds of Passage," the flock grows every year, And increases still more rapidly since the advent of "scoop" beer. Arizona she's too hot, for some she is too dry; Colorado, she's all right, but the altitude's too high; So they high themselves away up north at the opening of the spring, But the chilly northern winter's sure a swarm back here to bring. They'll tell of the "tortilla route" and the "bread and milk line," too, It's all they ever get to eat in Utah comin' thro'. We call them "Hobo Miners," but this you will find true, That these same miners are as good as any in the crew; But their days are few and fleeting, they soon get the "wrinkles" out, They look around the country then to pick out some "star route." There is always something wrong in every bloody camp, They're sure to find some good excuse to keep them on the tramp, If the "grub" and water are all right the air is never good; He "couldn't work there if he would, and wouldn't if he could." When he's in Arizona's heat, he'll dream of visions fair-- Of Colorado's snow-capped peaks and cool, pure mountain...

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