Dusty Poem of Wittleburg

The Curator, who wishes to remain nameless and identify only by his title, has come forward and laid out a discovery from a historian who claims that his ancestors were involved in one of the biggest cover-ups during the final years of the American Civil War. Since then, the place was reclaimed by the wild and remains as part of the scenery, but the historian swears adamantly that the spot is actually a grave site of the innocent commune, hard-working farmers and ranchers and store owners, whose only crime was defending their homes and their livelihood from a war that they wanted no part in. It was a welcoming town, where any person of any background, no matter the ethnicity or nationality or even religion, came to build a neighborhood of a firm but fair nature. A beautiful town, where work was the normal routine, but fun was available afterwards, with innovative art and available hands rewarded with fresh food and good water filtered and gathered from the river. A wholesome town, where children are taught not only reading and writing and mathematics, but also how to tie knots and shoot rifles, while churches preached the word of God and hosted weddings and festivals. It was called Wittleburg, and the alleged historian had given the Curator a poem that he hoped would collect minds instead of dust.

Wittleburg, long gone.

Home it was, for Long John.

A peaceful place, unlike before,

When it was involved

In the Civil War.

A rancher's herd, well done

Before and even after the festive sun.

Before Long John crossed his floor,

He left his caked boots

Outside of his door.

Butter churned, long prong

Held by the wife, Ann Chong.

Beautiful face, a gorgeous score

For her lovely noble man

Done with his long chore.

A preacher's word, by the Son,

Bound the both, a holy song.

To have, to hold, excite or bore,

In time until last breath,

Then nevermore.

The dusty bird, chirping on

And suddenly flies off the pavilion

Devoid of resourceful ore

As it goes and flies to the skies

Amongst a feathered score.

John himself, knows wrong

Upon Wittleburg's horizon.

Ready since hunting boar

With rifle in hand, on his land

Defend house, ranch, farm, store.

Single flag, held strong,

A gray mass, army strong.

A captain, crowning gold sword

Pointing, looking down the town,

To settle the long discord.

Brass trumpet, plays song,

Catches ears and eyes of John.

Seeing blue, a sea or more,

Their captain, crowned and clapping

Adding to the clamor.

Wittleburg, do no wrong

For sides of gray, blue, or Long.

A quiet town, now battle core

To be either seized or razed,

Year eighteen-sixty-four.

Blue and gray, marching on

Down hills with crops upon,

Useless food, dirt galore,

Soldiers are trained to fight

Despite the rich or poor.

Homestead ranch, ding-dong,

Welcome, but not for Long.

And Wittleburg's encore,

Ladies and gentlemen,

Begin your dance of war!

Blasting bursts, cannon,

Total lead, a ton and ton.

Husbands and wives and more,

Children even armed with knives -

Commit or engraved to gore!

Peace and sanity, now gone,

Shells slam dirt like a gong.

Stomach acid, now outdoor,

There is running as screaming

And entrails start to pour.

Take careful aim, Sir Long John,

Protect the wife Ann Chong.

Both sides unpost a post, a shoar,

With rifle and wife with pistol,

Show them their error!

Trolleys of volleys, come dawn,

Uncorks blood, vein to lawn,

Leftover pride, carnivore,

Red and white and blue and gray

Displayed a decor of horror.

Eyes on both sides, vision:

Twin ashes from each dragon.

Husband and wife, amor,

With their children still armed,

Side by side, lifeless tour.

Glory and honor, said done,

Burial and funeral, just begun.

Wittleburg, political eyesore,

But soldiers from North to South

Give such remarks glore.

John's and Ann's count, ninety-one,

Clutching hands and respected gun.

Propaganda, tyrant's whore,

Paints over event, I am sent

To recover, retell, and restore.

Curator's note: the unknown historian who shared his discovery of an unknown town wishes to remain anonymous, as the events of Wittleburg, a town once located near the Mississippi River within the State, left few survivors of the once-prosperous community. The historian, directly related to Johnathan "Long John" Grimman and Ann "Annabelle" Chong Grimman, relayed that both the Northern and Southern battalions (led by Captains Donald Star and Reginald Pandaren, respectively) agreed to take the survivors away and place them elsewhere while the buildings were burned to the ground and the crops were uprooted while the cattle were slaughtered and used for meat. The survivors, in turn, were later approached by high-ranking officers and made to take compensations to keep quiet about what happened with this now-hidden black mark on American history. At the time, eighteen sixty-four, politicians would remark on rebels from one side or another, and wave such off as defiant traitors or a panicking mob that lashed out against either side, but they guarded their tongues on the subject of Wittleburg.

After the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln, a group of men was reported to have gone through the former President's office, rifling and even taking papers and pages from books ranging from history novels to the President's own diary (the historian also claimed that there was a Wittleburg report hidden in Abraham Lincoln's hat, the one place no one would dare look inside of even after his death). The report came directly from Captain Star, but the historian hypothesized that the Confederate Captain Reginald Pandaren mailed a copy of his report to Lincoln as a show of sorrow and good faith, taking full responsibility of the atrocity.

The son of Johnathan "Long John" Grimman and Ann "Annabelle" Chong Grimman, named Tommy Grimman, passed on the story of his parents to his children, telling about how his father was a great hunter and carpenter and how his mother could dig a functional garden in a day, and how both got into the cattle business that would have brought revenue and renovation to their community.

The historian remarks that no one will find any information of Wittleburg in their libraries and mainstream media, as almost every record of the town was destroyed, and the survivors either stayed quiet out of pay or they told the story in a way that their descendants would have to piece together over time; it was protected with clues and trinkets being the only ways outside of words to relay from generation to generation.

For now, this poem is all that is left of a Western enigma.