Having spent a few months in the great, northern, presently not hiring, mining town of Smithers I have come away with fewer dollars and perhaps the same feeling of goldlessness that inspired the gold rush way back in the day. Here's a little ditty written in the spirit, (and the exact rhyme scheme), of Rober W. Service, the bard of the Yukon. You may recognize the name as the one and only poet you didn't hate when you studied Canadian poetry in school. Anyhoo, it's called...
You Done Struck it Rich
Six years and a day me and Frank were away
in the mountains. I can’t tell you which.
“A pinch short of forty,” said assayer Dougherty,
“Fellas, you done struck it rich!”
Those words we both feared we’d never a’ heared
when we camped near the lake in the gorse.
We mentioned ‘em when we talked now and then,
and we never quit hopin’ o’ course.
But words can be cursed, an omen, or worse!
If I hear ‘em again I might die.
But to unsay what’s said is like raisin’ the dead:
it ain’t even worth it to try.
Now forty points pure is a powerful lure,
so we packed up to mine our claim.
Too big for our britches we thought that our riches
would purchase us fortune and fame.
We loaded two mules with some food n’ some tools.
The town gossipers were abuzz.
Then we bought in Frank’s name a registered claim
and told not a soul where it was.
Those words in our ears we hiked with our fears
always checkin’ behind as we went.
We were both bound and bent to keep every cent
of our fifty point zero percent.
We blabbed as we went how the money’d be spent
and our greed ran amok, (as it does).
See we’d found a rich vein near a glacial moraine
and we didn’t know how long it was.
“I’ll bet it’s a mile!” Frank said with a smile.
I said, “Mebbe two or three!”
With the stars in our eyes it was no surprise
our follower we didn’t see.
We lit up our tents, didn’t hide where we went,
over smoky campfires we ate.
I’d be wiser today but you know what they say,
“Old too soon, and smart too late.”
When we got to our find not an hour behind
rode a figure of hatred and dread.
It was Dougherty’s son and he had a gun.
“Much obliged gentlemen,” he said.
“You can go back to town while I re-stake this ground
Or else you can give me a hand.
Choice number three, fine and dandy with me,
I could murder you right where you stand.”
Shovel in hand Frank kicked at the sand,
“This is OUR claim and you know it!”
“Well I know that’s true, and my Daddy does too,
but our claims office simply won’t show it.”
Now Frank was a spry and sizeable guy
and I outweighed Dougherty’s son.
Frank flashed me a look and his meaning I took.
He was spoilin’ to git us that gun.
It cannot be said what goes through a man’s head
when he makes up his mind in a second.
Frank rushed to kill, but I stood stone still
and the boy’s draw was quicker than reckoned.
I’m sure I can’t say we’d a took him that day
if I’d joined in the scuffle as well.
But I know it’s a fact for my cowardly act
I’ll burn in the fires of hell.
I knelt by Frank’s side as he painfully died.
I was there till his body went cold.
But before he cashed in he said with a grin,
“No friendship’s as precious as gold.”
What could I do? I chose option two
and helped that young snake steal our gold.
He more accurately aimed the pistol at me.
I done all the work truth be told.
But before I began I buried the man
who considered me his friend.
I’d visit each dawn and go on and on
about how our vein wouldn’t end.
My eyes’d get moist, I’d alter my voice
to a timbre soft but strong,
then I’d draw myself near, say, “Wish you were here,”
and promise to prove Frank wrong.
I worked that vein in the sun and the rain
through summer until the late fall.
I told my dead friend that if there’s an end
I’d seen no signs at all.
And every night the boy hitched me tight
by my ankle to a tree.
He waited until the weather turned chill
before he unshackled me.
The boy said, “You need to pick up yer speed.
Yer no good to me if yer froze.
You bin fallin’ behind these days at the mine
with yer frostbitten fingers and toes.”
I thought that I might kill that bastard that night,
but he slept with his pistol nearby.
And the time wasn’t right on any one night.
When that rat let his guard down I’d try.
I ain’t got the ink to write what I think
and I ain’t got the words consarn it!
But the best way to say what I did night n’ day
is I danced with the Devil incarnate.
The dance wasn’t long. Fate didn’t prolong
the meal from me she stole.
It was short and sweet, I was skinny and weak.
Still She dined on me body and soul.
That cur turned away one cold, snowy day
and now my damnation is double.
I cried, “Yer wrong, Frank!” and chunked off a hank
of his skull with the edge of my shovel.
Two men are now dead and that plays in my head
like my personal homicide trial.
“Your actions were filthy,” the judge says, “You’re guilty!”
And I can’t conjure up a denial.
If I go back to town I’ll just git gunned down
for my gold or for my offenses.
“There must be some way,” I thought every day
before I came to my senses.
I am doomed to grow old on this mountain o’ gold.
Maybe I’ll die in my eighties.
“You done struck it rich!” Well son of a bitch,
I can’t spend a nickel in Hades!
It's good to be back online again. Keep an eye out friends, I'm back!
No comments:
Post a Comment