Gold - Poem by Robert Eckstein
With golden nuggets in his poke, the miner trudged downstream,
And as he headed toward the town, he had a lovely dream;
First, a wash and shave, then food, some ham and eggs and pie
And in the evening whisky, maybe corn or maybe rye.
Then off to the town dancehall, and finally to bed.
And early the next morning, he would shake his aching head
And take his pack and pan and mule and head back to the hills
To bury himself again in work and cure the city's ills.
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