Find an old felt crusher.
My Old Felt Crusher Hat
George D. Stout
It came not in a fancy box adorned with Asian Silk
It can't be classed as haute couture, or any of that ilk
It's just a simple brown felt hat that has no pedigree
More suited to an archer's camp, than a fancy shivaree
It hangs there by a single nail upon my bedroom wall
It’s walked with me on pleasant days; in snow and northern squall
To keep the rays of sun at bay, or turn away the rain
Then back upon the wall once more, until we go again
It can not fletch a single shaft, nor string my favorite bow
It simply sits upon my head no matter where I go
It’s topped the hill in morning mist upon a well-worn trail
To catch the beat of hurried hooves, and fleeting, raised white tail
Perhaps it's hard at outward glance for one to understand
The qualities that lie beneath the felt and leather band
Some folks would think it rather quaint, while others turn their nose
Yet beauty, such that lives within, is not easily disclosed
It dwells inside the pressed wool felt, beneath the stitch and band
Awaiting just the knowing touch of the archers hand
When once again we take the trail in search of this and that
Just me, my bow and arrows, and my old felt crusher hat