Ben King's Verse/Old St. Joe

Of all the towns that jest suits me From Stevensville to Manistee, There's one old place I can't fergit; It ain't a great ways off, and yit From here it's sixty miles or so In a bee line--that's Old St. Joe.

I don't p'tend to write, an' ain't One of them air chaps 't paint; 'F I was I'd tell of scenes 't lie Stretched out afore a feller's eye; Er when the sun was hangin' low I'd paint it right from Old St. Joe.

I've seen folks gether thare in crowds Jist fer to watch the golden clouds Changin' shapes, and sort o' windin' Into figgers, never mindin' That old lake spread out below, Reflectin' 'em at Old St. Joe.

Underneath them cedar trees 'S where I used to take my ease. Birds a-singin' all along The hedge, an' each one had a song An' sung its best to let you know They jist got back to Old St. Joe.

They ain't no purtier site to me-- That is, 'cordin' to my idee-- Than jist to watch the gulls 'at fly Round that old pier; an' hear 'em cry An' circle round. It 'pears they know Fishin's good at Old St. Joe.

Course the people over there They don't notice 'em or care-- What they're worryin' 'bout is frost, 'N whether strawberries is lost; Yet they 'pear to take things slow, Jist the same as Old St. Joe.

'Ceptin' rheumatiz, their health Is middlin' good, an' as fer wealth They got that, an' lots o' land; 'Course the sile is mixed 'ith sand; But that's what makes the berries grow Overe there at Old St. Joe.

Take it gener'ly, as a rule, A feller likes where it's cool, Where he can sleep, an' drink in air That comes perfumed from orchards where The peach trees jist begin to blow; Then where's a place like Old St. Joe?

Such cool breeze blowin' back Keeps the skeeters makin' tack 'N the flies they mostly stay Up round Pipestone creek, they say. Tell you what, one thing I know-- They ain't no flies on Old St. Joe.