Too Tough to Die

 Full moon looking thru the trees


                               Life in Hanford or Too tough to Die

                            I lived with my family in peace and content,
                            but too serene were the days I spent,
                            Adventure called– I must Hie away,
                           Where only the tough and strong can stay.

                           Far over the Rockies my path did lead,
                          Three days travel behind Iron steed,
                          Then by bus the trip to complete,
                           I land in Hanford dirty and meek.

                          Its Barracks enclosed in a fence lot,
                          Each Barrack room with its tiny cot,
                         where fights were frequent and prayers were few,
                         Indeed, this Hanford was something new

                         People in every walk of life,
                         the love sick couple, the aging wife,
                        The sun-burned farmer from Arkansas,
                       The priest and lawyer from Omaha.

                      The wicked, the good and all that are,
                      People in trailer and miter car,
                      White and Yellow, Black and Brown,
                      These are the people in Hanford town.

                     Line-ups in the morning, noon and night,
                      Line-ups in the front, left and right
                      Causing men to natter in their sleep,
                      Strong men to swear the weak to weep.

                     Men looking at women on the street,
                    sizing up their stature, leg and feet
                    Hungry to taste of the feminine charms
                   But all they get are looks of alarms.

                    No, their needs must be drowned, their many cares,
                    By tripping the tasted of liquid wares,
                   Drank both of whiskey and of  Port,
                   Drank cheap stuff at $30.00 per quart.

                   And like the liege of many a nation,
                   Crowded the halls of recreation,
                   Filled up on beer till their hearts did flutter,
                   Then lay down to sleep in the Hanford gutter.

                   Ate in the mess hall, meals ever cooked
                 Puked in the street while others looked,
                 suffered and cursed and wondered why,
                The Hanford man was too tough to die

I believe that this was written by my uncle,  who was unable to serve in WWII,  and actually
traveled West to work in a large factory for the government.
 It sounds like the place that he lived in.

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