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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.


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