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Murder in Our Town

At Dalton town where I was born
in Ozark hills of home,
There lived a man named Leamon Brown
who plowed the rich, black loam.

His wife, a sweet and gentle soul,
did not foresee his bent,
she daily worked beside her man
who seemed to be content.

But in his heart a wrath appeared
to poison spirit's peace.
When reason left, his anger grew
and clawed to find release.

He stepped behind her where she sat
and bent to kiss her lips,
withdrew his blade and slit her throat
while blood streamed down her hips.

In panic's grip she fled the house
but stumbled soon and fell.
The children screamed in frozen shock
and dove straight into hell.

One son ran to his mother's side
and held her as she died.
His siblings hid from daddy's blade;
he stood there, glassy eyed.

As gossip spread like raging fire
of murder in our town,
the newsmen raced to pen details
as lawmen dragged him down.

His deed became the hottest news
to ever hit our town
The judge declared the man insane
this man named Leamon Brown

Now he is locked behind closed doors,
his wife lies in the ground.
Though we lament the children's fate,
his kids are sorrow bound.

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