• Author: B-8266
• Editor: B-8266
• Newspaper: The Umpire volume V
• Page Number:
• Date: 11 6 1918
• Tags:
• poetry

PAROLEDOnly three months more to wait, Till they open wide the Gate; Oh, say, fellows, ain't it great? Now you're paroled. Let winter come, or winter go, Let 'er rain, or let 'er snow, What do you care, now you know You're paroled? Soon you'll go a-walkin' down, Main Street in the old home town, Lookin' up, an' lookin' ‘round, Just been paroled. Tryin' not t' let folks see, You're fresh from the E.S.P.; Tryin, not to look too free, You're paroled! Can't you smell the buckwheat cakes All a-float in gravy lakes; An' the pie that mother makes, An' you paroled! Can't you feel that feather bed, With two pillows at the head; An' you're goin' to play you're dead, You're paroled! Course you're sorry for your pal, Who must stay behind the wall, Doin' ten, or twelve, or "all", An' you paroled! So you say "Don't worry, Jack, Cause you see, when times go slack, Mebbe I'll be comin' back, To the fold! B 8266