What holy cities are to nomadic tribes - a symbol of race and a bond of union - great books are to the wandering souls of men: they are the Meccas of the mind.
G.E. Woodberry
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Buddy Joe
Let me tell you about Buddy Joe
When he came down from Mexico
With his pockets full of gold
With his pockets full of gold
Have you something to declare
Are you sure there's nothing there
Cause if there is, don't say
You've not been told
Oh, Buddy Joe
What have they done with the gold
Well, I don't really know
Well Buddy Joe searched all his life
Through Mexico, all the riversides
Not for the money, but for the gold
He needs to hold
Well Buddy Joe was proud as he was
Could not stand all the fuss
When they got to all his gold
He was ready to go
Oh, Buddy Joe
What have they done with the gold
I don't really know
Well you'll understand he didn't stand a chance
Everybody was shouting commands
When Buddy Joe split in a hurry
He was ready to be buried
Oh Buddy Joe
What have they done with the gold
I don't really know