Frenchie Savoie Poem by david lessard

my name is frenchie savoie, from quebec,
I came out west in 1875, with wesley powell;
he wanted to take a boat down the colorado,
I told him he was nuts and take along a towel.

I went furthur south, to prescott, arizona,
not a state back then, just a territory;
it was wild and wolly place to be in 1875,
there were fights on whiskey row, quite gory.

the soiled doves also had their places,
or ladies of the night if you so prefer;
sisters in the world's oldest profession,
wrapped up in garments, some made out of fur.

doc holliday was once a resident of this town,
and wyatt earp, was another, who passed this way;
but they were ships, passing in the night,
they were lonesome drifters and they didn't stay.

me, I wound up a miner and did some farming,
'twas not my nature, to shout and call for fame;
you can find me in the old town's burial ground,
a piece of rock-like granite, tells you, my name.