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Shorty we called him, stumps strapped to a mechanic's dolly legs gone under a coal car in the mine. The change of shift he watched like a minstrel show, blackface comedy white flashing teeth red kerchiefs in the company store sopping up pop to down the dust In the East End bar Shorty held forth from the floor big hand around the Red Cap ale Knuckles tacky with road tar went backwards up the outhouse steps but nobody ever caught him with his pants down he's still a mystery on that score His widow made up for money he spent on booze with a pint-size pine box Short-changed him on pall bearers too though four out of a possible six ain´t bad Shorty would have told us when he wasn't dead and gone. Still plunging headlong on his cart down the dirt road home in my boy´s heart. - April Fool, 1984