Every day I tell myself
I’m gonna fix those stairs,
Fix those ramshackle stairs
Leading to my cabin,
My cabin on the cliff.
But you know how it is,
When you’re panning for gold,
You put everything off,
Until you are too old.
Mountain stream rushes by,
Falls into pool below.
Next door the wreckage of
Panhandler Johnny’s hut,
Clings on precariously
To the shale walled cliff,
Whilst golden aspen trees
Shimmer in Autumn sun.
Stand, knee deep in water,
Nobody there but me,
Search hard for golden flakes.
I look at my cabin,
My wilderness log home,
God how I love this place.
Happy on my own with
My cabin on the cliff.
Don’t cha know that I’m an
Old, gold, panhandling man
Little darlin’ I’m an
Old, gold, panhandling man.

Harry Rogers, in the hut. February 23rd 2017.