J. T. Poem by William B. Watterson

Above a red clay bank an old shack stands
Where J. T. lived and took his simple fare,
Never complaining once because his bare
Existence offered nothing that was grand.
He seldom shaved, he ate with unwashed hands,
And if his lunch was beans, he did not care.
His skill for tying fishing lines was rare,
He far surpassed all hunters in the land.
What matter if his speech was slightly rough,
Or he attended church by Midway Lake,
Or piney wood that towered dark and old?
He found the starlit nights serene enough
To calm his spirit, not needing to make
Pretenses, for his heart was solid gold.