We have sent him seeds of the melon's core,
And nailed a warning upon his door;
By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more.
Down in the hollow,‘ mid crib and stack,
The roof of his low-porched house looms black;
Not a line of light at the doorsill's crack.
The clouds blow heavy towards the moon.
The edge of the storm will reach it soon.
The killdee cries and the lonesome loon.
The clouds shall flush with a wilder glare
Than the lightning makes with its angled flare,
When the Ku Klux verdict is given there.
In the pause of the thunder rolling low,
A rifle's answer — who shall know
From the wind's fierce burl and the rain's blackblow?
Only the signature written grim
At the end of the message brought to him —
A hempen rope and a twisted limb.