The Mis-Wanderings Of Old Klondike Pete. Poem by Michael Gale

I am to e-mail news of stories past and old...
Of the Californian gold miner who struck it rich while on thy fly.
He dug and sifted every morning...
From the stream and ground so near.
He wished to find that fond unfound treasure...
Forever so far away.
His search did make him very tired...
Throughout his last-final day.
He did so sweat out in the sun...
So many, many miles away.
His name was Wandering Klondike Pete...
Forever losing his way to stream.
His direction was oh so erring...
He'd waken up from a drunken-lossed, unconscionsious dream.
His dreams of riches had so expired...
His ways of life was well uncaring.
His days were lost to time...
He was forever saddenly dispairing,
Forever was he robbed by crime.
He was always telling me of his long time exploits...
He had lied to me of a find so wonderous.
His riches were lies of time.
He was known as Wandering Klondike Pete...
Finally put to rest from off his feet.
His memories were tales and fables so tall...
His days were finally ended,
Old Wandering Klondike Pete had his final, fan fared-Final, final-'last call! '