's 2017 Horror Write-off:

Letters from the Last American Farmer

Submitted by cran

[fig. 1] Transcribed and submitted without comment, a series of poetic excerpts from the recovered belongings of an unidentified American civilian found dead and petrified in an abandoned trapping camp in rural West Virginia. Scarification consistent with fourth degree frostbite was present; Cadaver degradation minimal. Validation pending.


[L]etters from the Last American [Far]mer


Frontiersmen do their souls neglect,

Turned to trappings, metal bound.

Hid away from the Elect,

Noses pressed against the ground.

From hand to mouth- the path's direct.

I'll stand apart and hold my worth,

A farmer be, and earn respect;

I till the soil, turn the earth.
Who is he, the favored son,

Who raises up the fruit and grain?

And works until the day is done,

And come the harvest reaps the gain.

This is he- I'll be the one

To give my life to righteous toil.

I wield the pitchfork, not the gun;

I turn the earth and till the soil.
Proclaim the men from off the docks,

"Ubi panis ibi patria"

And to her fortunes they will flock

In love of fair Columbia.

Perhaps it comes to you a shock

Or else a simple source of mirth

But this pride you mustn't mock;

I till the soil, turn the earth.
The silver hand of Justice fair

Does lightly steer the citizen,

Brush'd his cheek, as soft as air

With good will towards his countrymen.

And although we know it rare

To her blind axiom we stay loyal.

For sanctum from the nobles'glares

I turn the earth and till the soil.

The story's whispered, be it true,

Often is it I have heard

Although he's swaddled in the glue,

Tar and feathers make no bird.

No wings, no eyes, yet high he flew,

The rope raised up a deadly girth,

And bid, as I, this soft adieu:

I till the soil, turn the earth.

The snake pursues me, long and white.

Its doubts do pull me from the fold

To embark into the night,

To embark into the cold.

Far to the West they say there's light.

Though ill-bred souls may curse and roil

Like gold, my virtue still shines bright;

I turn the earth and till the soil.
The land's the heart and heart's my own.

With little cabin, hearth, and fire,

I make this wilderness my home

And faithfully snuff my desire

For meat that melts fresh from bone.

I'll overcome the winter's dearth

If God's good graces He may loan.

I till the soil, turn the earth.
Desolation scrapes my spirit,

The rifle shakes within my grip,

An anthem's sung- I cannot hear it,

Teeth set upon my trembling lip.

Do in my labours I promerit?

Or show some moral split or spoil?

The end is nigh and as I near it

I turn the earth and till the soil.
One final verse I will extend

As cold and hunger overtakes

In hopes that you, my final friend,

Perhaps may learn from my mistakes.

Here all is ruin, all shall rend

Revolutions come unbirthed,

Yet compelled am I to tend

And till the soil, turn the earth.

Till the soil, turn the earth.

Till the soil, turn the earth.

Till the soil, turn the earth.