Chicago Shorty would write you a song,
Then he'd play the damned thing all night long,
Make you coffee, fry you an egg,
Tickle your funnybone, pull your leg,
Talk your head off, laugh at your jokes,
Kiss your sister and charm your folks,
Lend you his house, lend you his car,
Give you the strings from his last guitar. 

Stevie'd let you name the place,
Meet your plane and carry your case.
Chicago Shorty loved his life,
Loved his children, loved his wife.
He was a joy for me to know,
And I miss the little bastard so.

   -- Tom Paxton
   used with permission