The old dog slept on the log cabin porch…
By the light of the flickering of an oil filled torch…
While the moon shine still sat nearby…
In the holler of the mountain with the fog rising high…

The rocking chair rocked and squeaked as it went…
On the old oaken boards of the porch, gray and spent…
Clouds in the sky, lit up by the moon…
Were the backdrop while picking an old banjo tune…

An ancient, old fiddle hangs on the wall…
The songs that it knows would amaze us all…
The harvest moon hanging as gold in the sky…
Lights up the evening as old spirits float by…

That old Martin guitar, in grandpa’s able hands…
Were the life and the rhythm of many an old band…
Grandma would hum when he strummed at the house…
Said she was blessed to have him as her spouse…

Jaw harp a playin’ setting the tempo for the tune…
Boots a tappin’, folks dance in the room…
Fiddles a fiddlin’ and the mandolin picks too…
Closing this poem from BanjoTom2…