Wendell my husband, and me his Margo,
Was married thirty blissful years ago,
Come June, in Pocatello, Idaho.
We wasn’t what you’d call ‘high on the hog’,
Just lived in shotgun shacks with clapboard walls.
We didn’t need much room we weren’t too tall.
And plenty kids we planned to raise amight.
Each year, a babe was born Fourth of July;
The more we had, the less they’d fuss and fight.
Though thirty years meant thirty souls was born.
The goodness of the Lord would change to scorn,
And from my arms each tiny life was torn.