I still can recall the story, now old,
as clearly as just yesterday.
For context however,
and it to be told,
I must go back into time –
What year this all was, I can’t say.
I was merely sixteen, still young, a teen,
inclined rather deep in a young man’s own way
to a bad case of sheer naiveté—
As much, alas! as I still am today,
but this story will still have its say.
In the Land of Enchantment,
once upon a time,
at a trading post,
somewhere near Santa Fe,
my uncle and I stopped for some gas
and pick up provender one day.
There on the stoop sat an old man;
my uncle, he claimed to have known him.
“That old Indian,’ my uncle began,
“can remember each meal that he ate.”
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