I'm sort of lonesome, Billy, and I wish that you were here;
I'd like to see your face again, and have you sitting near,
Your feet upon the table top, a "bulldog" in your face,
You're such a comfy sort of friend to have about the place.
Remember how we'd smoke and smoke, and never say a word,
Content to watch the drifting haze that just above us stirred?
Companionship more precious, that, than priceless "gold and gear"--
I'm sort of lonesome, Billy, and I wish that you were here.
I'm not at all unhappy; the world is good to me;
I'm living well and doing well, I'm pain and worry free;
And yet, I wouldn't mind at all if you should tumble in,
And greet me with your "Howdy" and your comprehending grin,
And rifle my tobacco jar, and litter up the room;
It's present proper order gives the place and air of gloom,
I'd like to have you muss things up the way you used to do--
I'm sort of lonesome, Billy, and I'd like a chat with you.
We've worked and played together since I can't remember when;
We've watched each other grow from boys to--so they call us--"men;"
And so, no matter where I am, I somehow seem to feel
A little lonesome tremor that I cannot quite conceal;
And though I can't exactly say that I have "paled and pined,"
I have a quiet longing for the friend I left behind,
And then I whisper just as if your ears could catch it clear,
"I'm sort of lonesome, Billy, and I wish that you were here."