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E. H. Johnson
I hate the sawmill’s greedy whine
As it slaughters a bleeding pine,
And fear the ugly saw that chews
Its way into a tree's sinews.
I flinch on seeing the bones all piled
Out in the yard, naked, defiled,
And dread the whistle’s cry for more
As tree-butchers remove the gore.
It is sad to think how callously
My fellowman can slay a tree.
Alas, that home of birds and breeze
Should suffer such indignities.
The Prohibitionists made me Town Marshal
When the saloons were voted out,
Because when I was a drinking man,
Before I joined the church, I killed a Swede
At the saw-mill near Maple Grove.
And they wanted a terrible man,
Grim, righteous, strong, courageous,
And a hater of saloons and drinkers,
To keep law and order in the village.
And they presented me with a loaded cane
With which I struck Jack McGuire
Before he drew the gun with which he killed me.
The Prohibitionists spent their money in vain
To hang him, for in a dream
I appeared to one of the twelve jurymen
And told him the whole secret story.