He was a fellow of near old age
With one or two green bottles stashed in his shed
And they told me he was gramps

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The hay bales were always stacked in groups of three
And the dogs were always fed their meat and bones
He made his way into town four times a month

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He never said the television didn’t turn on anymore
And that he never liked the taste of turkey
Or the lake was too cold in winter

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And so they found him
Dead in his armchair
With a fifth green bottle in his hand

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All that was left was what ma told me:
“He plays a harmonica to the moon now, darlin.”
I never said goodbye but I still heard his final three notes