John Moore 1843-1933

John Moore 1843-1933 I was born with my lungs full of tarnation. Leastways that was my mother’s version of it. I do not believe anyone who was ever born, Came Into this world kicking, Leastways not like me; I tumbled in, kicking like some drifting no account sodbuster, Ready for the new plough, and the hedge maul. I grew up in a working family; My paw farmed our land with maw darning our lives together. I grew up fast in this torrid sun, working and learning. With sun-burned hands and forehead, I scraped a living together, best I could, And planted the seeds of a thousand children! But with each passing shivering winter, Even here in these sunny digs called Whittierville, I hated the galloping return of the pale horse; The dreaded infections of the lungs and nose; Terrible suffering has taken place here, my friends, Entire families were wiped out in a week, Slain by a monster with no body! Leastways that was my mother’s version of it. This old gravelly graveyard here was busy in 1918; Last stop for so many friends who died in a dark sick room, Astonished, I might say, that it was their time to die; I reckon Mt. Olive, in its greedier times of soft earth, Has seen half a dozen funerals in a single day. Leastways that’s what I hear tell, Coming from Artilissa Dorland Clark herself! Those were scary times, and the years were dark. I do not believe anyone who has ever died, Left this world kicking, Leastways, not like me… last thing I remember, I reached up to the ceiling in my sick bed, And cursed my damned lungs! For once again, as if by intelligent design, They were full of tarnation.