The Titans of South Union
by Bill Stinson
The mill pond ran dry,
The neighbors were pissed.
The swimming hole by
The old bridge is missed.
A hole in the dam!
A broken flood gate!
Could hydraulic cement
Help to seal up its fate?
But what now is a neighborhood
Pleasant and fair,
Once buzzed with intensity,
Know-how, and dare.
A saw mill, a grist mill,
A carding, two fullers,
An edge tool factory
To sharpen the dullers.
A place that made organs
And furniture rare,
A factory for caskets
To bury with care.
While the neighbors were scheming
Of fixing the blight,
The spectres of industry
Circled the night.
Wilbur Thurston, Brown Brothers,
Vaughan and Pardoe,
All mortified that
The waters ran low.
Their penstocks of old
Were gushing and free -
The old timers gave
Not just one dam, but three!
So their ire at seeing
The place without power,
Could only have made
Their spirits grow sour.
Still, happy to see
Some business still here
(Maine Scenes for coffee cups,
The Pour Farm for beer;
And Shep the auto mechanic man,
Test driving Porsches whenever he can),
They drew up a pact:
Their thirst they would quench.
A brew house takeover,
A big monkey wrench!
So they hacked at the valves,
And they hacked at the meters;
And the cooler they hacked at
Now chills like a heater.
They swam in the tanks;
They reversed every pump.
They occasionally made
The bar crackle and jump.
Now the beer at The Pour Farm's
Infused with the spirit
Of the South Union Titans,
There's no need to fear it.
UNLESS and until
You come out for the Poe,
Then they'll gently put out
Your lights with a blow.
[LIGHTS OUT IN THE BREWERY]