When the devil turned barber
the hogs were all slaughtered.
The Indians took two negroes,
each very large and likely,
and gave them good ponies
and clean rifles
but they ran away
back to their masters.
A panther shrieks
on a night a meteor streaks.
Dark fires over the hills and valleys,
swift over the sward,
Tecumseh retreats from
the fallen timbers.
Sell the air. Sell the great sea. Sell the earth.
Peace on the bosom of the mother
of men not sufficiently good
to live. Tecumseh stomped
his foot in Tippecanoe,
only New Madrid shook,
thus all the Shawnee knew.
A man, I heard, a priestly man
sojourned in the wrong land
with his concubine
and, when accosted, gave up
this woman to be abused.
At dawn of day, she crawled back
and died and he took her home,
took his knife, divided her,
and scattered her bloody bones
all over the place
twelve different times.
Warriors became enraged.
Enraged they slew all the other men.
They slew left-handed men
because those men are always singular
and sling stones with great precision.
And they arrayed themselves after the slaying,
they fortified themselves with the word of their lord
and superior numbers and the word of this god
and the death of men of valor before overwhelming
numbers, men of valor judged and dead.
Judged in such a way that all the women
these brave men slept with were also slain.
Only virgins remained. They wore headbands.
About 400 headband wearing virgins remained.
And after a while, when they came out to dance
by the vineyards because when virgins dance
they also need wine to sate their thirst,
the warriors waiting there for them caught them,
returned to the burnt cities, and replaced the dead
children put to the sword at the word’s directive.
Seven squaws for seven soldiers.
We began to close on the town
by making our files closer and closer
and the Indians soon saw they were our property.
Their squaws and all would run
and take hold of any of us they could,
and give themselves up.
I saw seven squaws have hold of one man,
which made me think of the Scriptures,
so I hollered out the Scriptures was fulfilling,
seven squaws for every soldier.
I saw some warriors run into a house until I counted forty-six of them. We pursued them until we got near the house, when we saw a squaw sitting in the door, and she placed her feet against the bow she had in her hand, and then took an arrow, and, raising her feet, she drew with all her might, and let fly at us, and she killed a man, whose name, I believe, was Moore. He was a lieutenant, and his death so enraged us all, that she was fired on, and had at least twenty balls blown through her. This was the first man I ever saw killed with a bow and arrow. We now shot them like dogs; and then set the house on fire, and burned it up with the forty-six warriors in it. I recollect seeing a boy who was shot down near the house. His arm and thigh was broken, and he was so near the burning house that the grease was stewing out of him. In this situation he was still trying to crawl along; but not a murmur escaped him, though he was only about twelve years old. So sullen is the Indian, when his dander is up, that he had sooner die than make a noise, or ask for quarters.*
Sing your death song in silence. Or at least with some recreated notes in Chillicothe.
(*All italics from the full text of “Davy Crockett’s Own Story.” Public domain.)