Mountain Men

Of tumblin' skies in winter high
a hailin' stones an' daggers.
Where good a man would choose to die
a frozen where he staggers.

Who'd wear the cold when ten below, 
such torments worth surmountin'? 
Yet howl the wolves o'er them who do, 
them men who scar the mountain.

There's blood in them thar hills, begad, 
where knives and dead men greet ya.
Where packs of thugs lay wait the shout; 
some fool who'd cry, "Eureka! " 

Be wicked them, a liken none; 
them's badass sonsabitches. 
Of axes, guns an' whiskey stills 
an' bodies in the ditches.

Who'd stick a feller like a hog
if sniffed a whiff of fortune.
Such wastin's when a pittance paid, 
would cuss their own misfortune. 

As hard as stone an' weathered worn, 
from granite wrought an' moulded.
Of frozen snot an' grinder's rot, 
of muskets, locked an' loaded.

Blows fierce the days, none fiercer be
when raid the scowls of winter.
Where mad be them mid yowlin' gales
where not a bear would linger.

Come night, the hooch, 'round blazin' logs
an' meaner by the bottle.
If had a say, as sure as hell, 
be brawlin' in some brothel.

Get liquored up an' yellin' wild
in ructions an' beratin's.
An' thar be knives an' blood be let
an' all in for the takin's. 

Beyond belief, yonside the norm, 
afeared by judge an' preacher.
Be lost to men, be heathens them, 
be not of man but creature.

Rave rantin' hot ’till bleary sot, 
a bedded down an' wasted.
Burn low the logs where snore the dogs
in dank an' drunken hatred.

A hatin' all, most all, themselves, 
of loves lost o'er the shoulder.
Who'd swear to care some brothel mare, 
what love could be as colder? 

Let howl the wolves o'er mornin' curs
when achin' from their slumbers.
The dampened yells, the bottles drained, 
nowt left, e'en dead the embers.