'Way back in the beginning, Back when the West was new, Some boys came up the river In a little birch canoe.

They tired of river travel, Got out and looked around. They built themselves a fortress And named it Shawneetown.

The town was soon to prosper, The town was soon to grow, As others sought their fortunes Up the mighty Ohio.

The newest Western outpost, Word soon got around, And Lafayette, the Frenchman, Came to visit Shawneetown.

Chicago asked for money, But Shawnee told them no. They were too far from Shawnee. They could never grow.

And then in Thirty-seven The river got so high She covered up old Shawnee. But Shawnee wouldn't die.

She lies there on the river bank Beneath the shady tree. There's always been a Shawnee, And I guess there'll always be.

John L. Gwaltney

'Twas March 18th in the afternoon Back in Nineteen twenty-five. A killer storm was spawning That scores would not survive.

It moved across Missouri, To Illinois and right on through, And before the storm abated, It hit Indiana, too.

The sky was dark as twilight, The cloud built more and more. The thunder rolled and rumbled, Like a distant cannon's roar.

The breezes stopped completely, everything was still as death. The air so hot and sultry One could scarcely get their breath.

Then lightning licked out from the cloud, As it moved across the sky, And a funnel spiraled earthward, As the big storm moved on by.

Like a mad-man hunting vengeance, Like an ogre spreading wrath, The storm destroyed completely Everything within its path.

Now years have passed, the towns rebuilt, And Man goes on his way. But tombstones in the graveyards Count the Human loss that day.

If you look, you'll still find oldsters, Those who managed to survive. In a low chilled voice they'll tell you About the storm of '25.

John L. Gwaltney