Saga of Sara and Emma Jane

In courtroom large, the high charge stuck:
Sara’s man could not buck the stolen horse,
So chained and off to prison, the course
Of her life changed, radically rearranged;
Could she manage alone, fields newly sown?

Meanwhile, Emma Jane wept where cold body slept
In silent keep of death, and no one else would weep;
So what else could she do but sell out and bail out?
One man was tied as the other died, and both cried,
But Sara kept her claim and so Emma Jane came.

CosgirlsAnd the two bright, strong women would fight
To keep their only plot of land — not a lot —
Sara and Emma Jane plowed and prayed for rain
Again and again to adorn their field with corn;
Work, no play — the pay was strong bond of love.

Out in the wild, wild West they would survive,
Hope kept alive by burning backs, aching arms,
And no time for charm till dinner bell chime;
Sara and Emma Jane would climb up into bed
And lay their heads down with very little said.

Ah, they had their land and crops, home and slop
For hogs and wood to chop in a virtual sweatshop
With no whistle-stop — work begun had to be done
Under the sun — and they rarely made it into town;
But these two had their space on their own place.

Sara and Emma Jane, given to one another, could
Never be won by man passing by, try as he might;
Light of love bound to survival in ever revival
Of one spirit in two bodies married these two
In true love forged above and sealed on earth.

Sara and Emma Jane stood their ground, so profound,
Against so many hounds of hell striking warning bell;
They would not sell, no, not Sara’s land to band
Of thieving men bent on sin to win what belonged
To two women so strong, who’d chosen the long road.

And Beauty stood tall, formidable, nothing biddable
As Sara and Emma Jane tamed the wild, wild West. . .



Here in Marlboro Town

Here on the streets of Marlboro town you can hear the beat

Of a dozen drums as sand in the hourglass quickens its pace
To keep everyone in their right place in smoke-filled bars,
Inhaling tar and nicotine. It’s a sham and a shame, but no
One can blame anyone ~ hell! they still do ~ with pistols
In leather holsters, the weather outside is too damn cold
To abide, so someone buys another round, so you’re bound
To get drunk, sink deeper into funk here in Marlboro town.

You see, when the sun goes down on the town, if you can
Reach the teacher-preacher in search of forgiveness, but
Nothing is forgotten in this hell-hole where you sold your
Precious soul for two bits and another role of the dice;
Nice! But now you’ll pay any price for redemption to avoid
Execution in the revolution against the evolution of your
Heart, so dark; so you mark the time till midnight chimes
Amidst all the gunk and grime in the blight of a miserable
Little town called Marlboro, with dusty streets, rhythmic
Beats, as fire heats alcohol room after room for your doom.

Welcome one and all to Marlboro town!