Cooney Potter
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inherited forty acres from my FatherAnd, by working my wife, my two sons and two daughtersFrom dawn to dusk, I acquiredA thousand acres.But not content,Wishing to own two thousand acres,I bustled through the years with axe and plow,Toiling, denying myself, my wife, my sons, my daughters.Squire Higbee wrongs me to sayThat I died from smoking Red Eagle cigars.Eating hot pie and gulping coffeeDuring the scorching hours of harvest timeBrought me here ere I had reached my sixtieth year.
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