They said he was known, to talk to his axe
As if it were the best comrade of his,
Amid the rumors about, he had a rich father
Must have fueled his rancor; the life he had missed.
So local horse slaughterer, became his career,
Ready day and night, with axe in his bag;
Sick and old cows, horses and mules,
Made short work with his axe, of the ailing Nag.
It was his work and he was quite good,
Most skillful with axe; and strong and fast.
With his constant friend, in it's home, the bag,
There's many an animal, breathed it's last.
His work left a smell, upon his person;
Some sick horses had the smell within,
And a small girl at play outside, could not miss
The man going by, with strange smell on him.
Under the radar, he plied his trade,
Coming and going, near invisibly;
Never suspected, if he was the one
Gave fatal blows their timely delivery.
Like a bad choice come back, from the past
To haunt the rich miser, in his worldly domain
Of such stern stuff, there's no doubt he'd refuse
To his fatal undoing, and terminal pain.
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 5:55 AM UTC
They said he was known, to talk to his axe
As if it were the best comrade of his,
Amid the rumors about, he had a rich father
Must have fueled his rancor; the life he had missed.
So local horse slaughterer, became his career,
Ready day and night, with axe in his bag;
Sick and old cows, horses and mules,
Made short work with his axe, of the ailing Nag.
It was his work and he was quite good,
Most skillful with axe; and strong and fast.
With his constant friend, in it's home, the bag,
There's many an animal, breathed it's last.
His work left a smell, upon his person;
Some sick horses had the smell within,
And a small girl at play outside, could not miss
The man going by, with strange smell on him.
Under the radar, he plied his trade,
Coming and going, near invisibly;
Never suspected, if he was the one
Gave fatal blows their timely delivery.
Like a bad choice come back, from the past
To haunt the rich miser, in his worldly domain
Of such stern stuff, there's no doubt he'd refuse
To his fatal undoing, and terminal pain.
I read a book years ago, about an alternate theory of who murdered the Bordens of Fall River, Massachusetts in 1892. This many years later it seems impossible to prove anything as there is no longer the evidence available to investigate claims, with but the book intrigued so I wrote this poem.
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