Inspecter of pipe,
Checker of wells,
He always liked
To stop and tell

Life's wonders to laddies
Of friendly face,
Its secrets to lassies
Of frill and lace,

And leave them stunned
With gladsome heart,
To know there's one
Who would impart

The things he'd learned
From fist and grind,
From heart so burned,
From senior mind.

"That book, that book!",
He wanted to say,
But just one look
Could drive 'em away.

He thought and searched
For a way to start,
Then committed to verse
What came to heart.

For years on end
He fussed and fixed
His poems till they
Were rightly mixed.

And mostly did it
In shower stalls,
Or on the john
Against the walls.

And now are we
All blessed with rhyme
To which he gave
Such love, such time.

His words give pictures
To the mind,
And shake us loose
From fears that bind;

They nourish hearts,
And make them whole;
They leave his footprints
On the soul.

We thank him so
For what he's done,
Oilman, poet, Brother Joe-
By him we all have won.