The Ballad of Shannon Cates
Long ago in the great days of logging
Shannon Cates had most of the fame;
he was known up and down that north-west coast
and everyone shrank at his name.
For he thought that men were like engines,
meant to work to the end of their days;
and of all the things that had worked for him
the steam donk alone had praise.
He owned an old tugboat named Irma,
which he drove till she gave up and sank;
then he cursed her to Hell, and followed her there
and kicked in her boiler tank.
No man worked long for Shannon;
they said: “He treats men like slaves;
you can sum up the cost of his countless board feet
in the number of loggers’ graves.”
As for women, Shannon was shameless;
he rushed on his lecherous quest
from British Columbia to Coronada
and bastardized the west.
But for logging he had no equal
in Heaven or Hell or here;
a tree to him was four dollars per foot,
and that made eight hundred clear.
He believed every tree was for cutting,
and swore he’d make barren that coast;
but he tripped when a tree came down suddenly,
and that put an end to his boast.
This is the song of the great Shannon Cates—
not likely he’s one of the Blest;
too much of a man for any one time,
he’d think Hell was Eternal Rest.