When I grew up, bards and storytellers sometimes visited the local tavern to sing songs and tell tales for a coin or two. This is one of those songs I remember vividly.

Farmer Jim

The little farm lay in the sun,
the field was green and gold.
Why did farmer Jim then run?
This is the story told.

Farmer Jim had worked all day,
his back was stale and sore.
But happily to sleep he lay,
this year he would eat more.

Suddenly a noise woke Jim,
he rushed to the window glass.
What met him was a sight so grim;
a giant metal mass.

The rusty giants tore the field
with gruesome metal tools.
Jim ran out with sword and shield
like many other fools.

The puny weapons were no match
for giants made of steel.
A rusty spike then made a scratch,
Jim's wound would never heal.

His arm was hurt, he ran in pain,
from home he had since boy.
A heartless beast can not be slain.
They live just to destroy.

He stopped to breathe and saw the crops
get flattened, cut and shred.
The oat, the wheat, the growing hops,
it died from rust so red.

Militia soldiers came next week,
but could not help nor harm.
The outlook is now very bleak,
Jim only has one arm.

A one-armed farmhand is no use,
so Jim was forced to beg.
The coins he gained, he soon would lose
in bottle, glass and keg.

Each day, each year, Jim passed his house,
and watched the ruins fall.
It made an anger deep arouse,
he always made a brawl.

Heavy drunk, he picked a fight,
but Westfall men are strong.
This was poor Jim's final night,
he heard the spirits' song.

In spirit state he flew back home,
he will forever stay.
Late at night, you hear him roam,
he swears revenge one day.

Pass by his house, don't be afraid,
you'll see a shade at most.
This was the story. -Have you paid?
Of Jim, the one-armed ghost.

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