Ken

I think about him now and then,
at Christmas time or when it rains.
A mountian of a man,
with a lot more guts than brains.

Don't get me wrong!...
Ken was sharp,
but so was his knife.
Not a man to be trifled with,
if you valued your life.

Sometimes when we shared a bottle,
of Canadian or Tennessee.
The mean would wash right out of him,
and he would sing a song for me.

And sing damn good he could,
when his inhibitions were forgotten.
When his head was filled with yesterday,
and today didn't seem so rotton.

He was out of place and out of time,
angry and dangerous!
He whipped every man he ever fought,
and there were many,
and Lord could he cuss!

I stopped by his place one day,
with my baby boy.
Matt was my pride and joy,
and Matt was only four.
Ken was in an especially mean way that day,
and he told my Matt he'd whip him sore.

I mustered all my courage,
and to that big man I said,
"Ken that may be true,
but it will be after,
the me and you."

Looking back,
it's plain to see,
he was just testing my mettle.
For with a laugh the issue that never was,
was forever settled.

I was always welcome in his house,
to share a drink or a bite,
and if need be,
I was welcome to spend the night.

He passed away at Christmas time,
all alone and in chains.
I think about him now and then,
at Christmas time,
or when it rains.