This is about Frenchy Dubois,
Who was a growing, lanky boy
On a Christmas tree farm in Illinois
The hero in a novel I wrote with joy-(D-7)
The Story is about his plight,
Being raised by a mean Uncle and looney Aunt
Bruno and Aunt Viney, were always right
Frenchy stayed away from their rant.-
He took cover in his secret cave,
Hidden by the weeds and brush on Salt Creek
Put away in a rock-lined safe,
His journal, he wrote in, every week
So the story is written,
It is in a box on my shelf
Covered with slips of rejection
Waiting to be discovered, void of myself-
Stories about how his kin homesteaded this place
Clearing the timber to make crop land
Now, full circle, his dad, replaced corn with trees
Frenchy was growing up, lending a hand
In a few short years, and he became of age,
The tree farm would be his per his dads will
But until then, Bruno and Viney wrote every page
And Frenchy could only dream of this thrill.
So the story is written,
It is in a box on my shelf
Covered with slips of rejection
Waiting to be discovered, void of myself.