Down on a depot platform,
Bathed in the bleak wintry breeze,
Shy long ago of its contents,
With nothing inside it to freeze;
Shy long ago of its contents,
Drained of its last amber dreg,
Bungless and beerless and friendless,
Stands an empty eight gallon keg.
* * * * *
She—You married me for love and got it.
Old Foggie—You married me for money and got it.
She—I’ll tell the world I earned it.
* * * * *