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]
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