THE OLD POOL HALL

There's a few old boys in my home town, 
That don't do much but sit around. 
They're all retired and have the "dough"
And there's no place that they want to go. 
So they loaf around from spring 'till fall, 
Battin' the breeze in the old pool hall. 
They talk of the boys that are farming now, 
Diesel engine and ten bottom plow. 
They farm too much, and they may get hurt, 
'Cause many a farmer has lost his shirt, 
By hookin' his plow in Dakota dirt. 
They talk of the drought in nineteen-ten, 
It happened once and it might again. 
They keep it up from spring 'till fall, 
loafing here in the old pool hall. 
Then some farmer steps up and begins to complain, 
That the crops are dry and needin' rain. 
A two day drizzle is what they need, 
If it don't come they'll run out of seed. 
If rain don't come within the day, 
They'll have to mow the crops for hay. 
It happens there from spring 'till fall, 
listenin' to gripes in the old pool hall. 
They laugh at the cowboy of to-day, 
Making fun in the same old way. 
They're just a bunch of would be brats, 
Wearing fancy boots and cowboy hats. 
And doubt like heck if they would know how, 
To ride a bronc or rope a cow. 
It happens there from spring 'till fall, 
Spinnin' their yarns in the old pool hall.
Then some will say "Boys get your pards,
We'll kill some time in a game of cards."
So they play a game and they play it again
'Till the one that lost wonders why he didn't win.
He wouldn't of lost if he'd played like he should
'Cause the trump was out and his ten was good.
But telltn' him it weren't no use.
When he'd hold his ace and lead his deuce.
It served him right that he had to pay.
When he'd set in a game that he couldn't play.
You hear it there from spring 'till fall
If you're hangin' 'round the old pool hall.

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