MEMOIR OF A PROUD BOY
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boyWith eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun butt.
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood togetherAnd swore by the retribution of steel.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paperOf picket silhouettes on a mountain line.
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to standAnd shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho VillaAnd wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stonesTo keep pigs away.
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirrIn a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.