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The story of Eli Tuttle, with which this poem opens, is true. Carl learned it from a descendant of the man who lived through that long-ago unavenged tragedy.
There's blood on the floor of a New Haven cabin,
stained into History...
There's blood on the floor of a New Haven cabin
that cries out, while killers walk free.Eli Tuttle watched Hessian soldiers
kill all of his family, but one.
Before they had their way with his only daughter,
the Redcoats cut out his tongue.
A black-robed whore declined to press charges,
against the bloody King's Men.
He ruled that none of His Majesty's soldiers
were subject to civil offence.And the flames from a fire in the heart of a people,
grew higher with every year...
The flames from a fire in the soul of a nation,
burned hotter with every tear.There's blood on the floor of a Ruby Ridge cabin...
Pray, every eye will soon see.
There's blood on the floor of a Ruby Ridge cabin
that cries out, while killers walk free.Randy Weaver watched Federal agents
murder his wife, and his son.
Because under duress, he filed down the barrel
of a single shotgun.
A black-robed whore declined to press charges,
against the Government's Men.
He ruled they were just following orders,
protected from civil offense.May the flames from a fire in the heart of this people,
grow higher with every year...
Let the flames from a fire in the soul of this nation,
burn hotter with every tear...For there's blood on the floor of a Ruby Ridge cabin,
stained into History...
And the blood from the floor of a New Haven cabin
still cries out, when killers walk free.
(c) Carl Alexander 1998.
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25 May, 1998