His name was “Port McLaughlin,” no more do I know
A life of toil was his, it shows
In worn-out shoes and scruffy clothes.
A smile unused to cameras, gnarled hands, his life’s testament;
Stoic countenance on his deep-lined face, his feet from labor bent.
Newt Godfrey was a close, dear friend, but Newt is dead and gone.
No one is left to shed some light and tell us ‘til the dawn
An interesting yarn ‘bout Port McLaughlin.