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Johnny Adams
There lived a lad in Riverton,
A
good lad such was he;
His name was Johnny Adams;
He played near apple trees.
The sun was cool, the trees were dead,
Nigh was Harvest Season;
Such a sadness would befall
With neither hope nor reason.
In the darkened post-noon hours
Of Saturn's sacred day,
The Reaper came to visit,
And him they had to pay.
His life flashed red across the blade;
A scream across the land,
Then they all soon realized
That Johnny lost his hand.
The red that flowed was crimson red,
Redder than the sky.
The family was so full of dread,
In fear of Johnny's cry.
Johnny wept and then stared blank,
His last breath longed to draw,
In those last dark dusky hours,
The darkest that they saw.
They waited for the doctor there
While his mother held his head,
But his life kept racing faster
Till Johnny lay there dead.
The Doc had come and all looked long,
The Doc had come too late;
His passion for the grape vine
Sealed Johnny Adams' fate.
Copyright © 2008 by Kevin Dunn
kbdunn@gmail.com
Last revised
April 16, 2008
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