There’s a flower bed in my garden,
That blooms but once a year,
And if Old Joe could see it now,
His memory would be so clear.

He would remember how I cared,
About the flowers that he grew,
Because I quizzed him about the colours,
As if he really knew.

I probably irked him often,
As I stood their in his shade,
And let my errant footprints,
Ruin, the perfect rows he’d made.

I followed him with passion,
From the garden to the gate,
I just wanted Old Joe to realise,
He had a little mate.

Soon he would go trappin’,
He never stayed around for long,
But to argue of his leaving,
That really would be wrong.

And when he left for trappin’,
I’d be at my very best,
I weeded all his gardens,
To hope he’d be impressed.

Back he’d come on Sunday,
But deprived of any time,
To notice what his son had done,
To keep the gardens fine.

Well Old Joe was still my hero,
No matter what he saw,
I only wish he was alive today,
And we could do it all some more.