Poetry Writen By (Old Man Knapp).

Poetry Writen By (Old Man Knapp).

TO S. E. White,
Natoma, Cemetary,
Natoma, Kansas.
Dear old neighbor, your race is run;
Your battle is fought; your victory is won.
And while your clay is laid to rest,
Your spirit is roaming with the blest.
And I turn away my grief to hide
And pray we'll meet on the other side.
And when time breathes for me no more,
You'll be my neighbor on the other shore.
                    AAAAAAAAAAAAAA

A LETTER TO EBEN.

My eyes are dim, my ears are shut;
But my old thinker is workin' yet.
And if I ever write or not,
Old friends back there are not forgot.

One thing we need not be told,
That you and I are getting old.
We're past the time alotted men,
To live just three score years and ten.

Past by a dozen years or more.
We're ambling along well up in four.
We've had ups and sowns mixed in our cups.
IN mine I find more downs than ups.

But you'll never hear me moan.
I'll reap the harvest from the seed I've sown.
But say, it fills my heart with pain
To find in my harvest so little grain.

And worst of all (now please dont laugh)
The little I get is covered with chaff
I've often wished that you and Me
Could chaw the rag''bout Frankie D.

If you was here or I was there,
The atmosphere'd be full of old gray hair.
The way we'd fight would be a sin,
But woe to the guy that butted in.
Our different opinions would be forgot,
And togather we'd knock off his block,
No matter how much we gnaw the bone,
Our fights are ours and ours and  alone.