  Steam Shovel Cut lies through a wood, And the trestle’s at the end. And north are the lonely Fillmore Hills, And south the river’s bend. It’s Christmas day and the blue on the hill Is flapped by a flying crow. And the steel of the railroad track is cold, And the Cut is piled with snow. What is that there by the trestle’s end Where the Cut slopes down to the slough? That’s Cora Williams lying there In her cloak of faded blue. Her skirt is red as a northern spy, And her mittens blackberry black. And under her cotton underskirt There’s a green place on her back. Her little gray hat is over her brow, And covers a purple bruise. She had white stockings for her feet And the holes were in her shoes. Where did you meet Croak Carless, girl? And where did you start to booze? They saw you once at Rigdon’s place, And last at Sandy Hughes’. On the night that Jesus Christ was born You were drinking gin and beer. They saw you sitting on Carless’ knees As the midnight hour drew near. They saw you two start into the night, And the night was cold and black. And then they found you there by the bridge With the green bruise on your back. Down through the dark to the Shovel Cut The two of you walked and sang. You were holding hands on the trestle bridge When the bell began to clang. ’Twas back of the curve that the head-light shone So what was the use of eyes? The mad iron thing leaped on you there As you ran on the trestle ties. It rushed on you like a furious bull That charges a scarlet flag. The engineer looked long at the gauge As the fireman scraped the slag. Croak Carless jumped and fell on a stone And the world to him was a blank. But the iron thing struck at your back And doubled you down on the bank. Croak Carless woke from a sleep like death And found you covered with blood. He slinks to the river to wash his hands, He runs to hide in the wood. He steals through thickets, hides in a barn, He cowers where the corn’s in shock. But the posse catches Croak by noon, And the jailer turns the lock. Croak Carless’ wife weeps at the bars, Croak weeps in a grated cell. They’ve mortgaged the farm for a lawyer’s fee To save Croak’s soul from hell. For the Coroner has a bat-like thing In a bottle safe in his room. It looks like a baby devil fish— It’s Cora Williams’ womb. A woman’s womb is a thing of doom And winged with a fan-like mesh. And who was the father, they’re asking Croak, Of this bit of jelly flesh? And the doctors took an oath in the court That a sharp club did the deed. And the judge was a foe of the lawyer man Croak Carless paid to plead. And Croak had talked too much in jail, And he trembled and testified To a woeful tangle of time and place, And the jury thought he lied. Croak Carless’ wife sobbed out in court As they twisted him out and in. For they made him swear he drank with the girl, And swear to his carnal sin. They stood him up on the gallow’s trap And his voice was clear and low: If I killed Cora Williams, men, My soul to hell should go. They sprang the trap, Croak Carless shot Like a wheat bag toward the floor. And the doctors let his body hang Till his old heart beat no more. They let him alone to work and sweat For a wife’s and children’s ease. But they hung him up for a little beer With a woman on his knees. And he might have died in bed in a year, For when they opened him up They found his heart was a played out pump, And leaked like a rusty cup. And a man can live as the church decrees, Or dance in the way of vice, A woman’s womb is a thing of doom, And life is the current price. ’Tis a vampire bat, or the leather box From which you rattle the dice. ’Tis an altar of doom, is a woman’s womb, And man is the sacrifice. |
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