there sits an old man in my memory
his face wrinkled with years of life
his hands big and strong but gentle
and kind
his hair white from age

there he sits in his cane back chair
gentle dusting out the old tabacco
in his pipe, he pulls out his tabacco
pack and gathers up fresh packing it
in to his pipe again,pulling out a
stick match he stirkes it againest
the wooden porch the smell of sulfur
lingering in the air as he touchs the
fire to his pipe , puffing he soon has
a string of smoke lingering in the air
around him , the look of pleasure covers
his face , gentle he reachs down and
gather's me on his lap , looking out
across the mountain tops , remembering
days of his youth telling us stories
of his advantures. our face's light up
listening to those wonderful stories.