by Hester Miller Johnson
I have something I must tell you,
A Story I should relate,
About a cooking job I started on
In September of '28.
I was cooking for just four men,
A small Pile driving crew,
And if ever there was anything these birds couldn't think of
Well no one else ever knew.
I suppose I should try to describe
Each one of this gang of mine,
So I'll start in with the boss
And go on down the line.
He is a Scotchman of unusual habits
Who knew how to put in fish traps,
And as to drinking-snoring & cussing
He had the others backed off the map.
The next was Carl-the engineer
The quiet one of the lot,
Who got the Boss' goat in a Black Jack game
And in bluffing in a Jack Pot.
Then there was Cliff the boom man
A vulgar boatman as it were,
Who could hold his own in cussing & cards
Which ever the occasion occured.
And Mac the kid loftman on the job,
One also of true Scottish fame
Why he would loose 25 or 30 cents
In an all nite poker game.
They were all very good scouts
But to speak of my self wouldn't be fair,
And still if I didn't like their ways
I really would't have been there.
But to me it was a vacation with pay
And the time went very fast,
I am willing to work here any time
And didn't care how long it last.
For the sceanery here is wonderful
And the feasting on mild game,
I have enjoyed it to the utmost
And you would too just the same.
When every anything went wrong
While working with this gang,
A volumn of profanity's dictionary turned loose
In all phrases of swearing and slang.
And if you knew this bunch of roughnecks
You would have the same to tell,
You would say they are the best Scouts in the world-
Any place this side of h---