by Cpl. Robert L. Cook
Jan. 1942~Sept. 1945
My daddy built a house
Out on old Bunkum Road,
He was not a carpenter
As carpenters go.
He had a pocketknife
A hatchet and a rule,
He was short on knowledge
And also short on tools.
He had a need to build
A place where we could live
And all that he could give us
Was a shotgun bungalow.
Now, it was not fancy
In any shape or form,
Oh sure, it had windows,
Which was, of course,
The norm.
There was a light bulb hangin’
In each and every room,
It wasn‘t much for lightin’
But it kept away the gloom.
We had that kind of sidin’
That looked kinda like brick
But it kept the rain and cold out,
That I must admit.
And, of course,
There was a porch
Not much in scope or size,
T’was there that Mom did her washin’,
She was well advised.
She’d build a chunk fire
In the yard
And set her boiler there,
To keep the duds a movin’
She’d stir ‘em now and then.
It helped in the cleanin’
And to make them fit to wear.
I shan’t forget that old house
In which I was brung up,
And that old kitchen table
Where I often supped.
Though time has dimmed
My memories
And dulled my hearing some,
That old house on Bunkum Road
Will stay forevermore.
And then I joined the Corps
And lived there no more,
They took me to places
Most obscene.
I saw too many things
That still haunt
My dreams
And leave me longing
For that old house
Once more.
* * *
About the author: Robert Cook served with Reg. Weapons Co.(2d-2d) from 1942~44, at Guadalcanal
and Tarawa, during a 33-month overseas tour.
