You can call me a sportsman
I’ll wear that name with pride
But I prefer the name of hunter
Happy eater of all things fried

Or perhaps the slayer of the grazing beast
It has a poetic ring
Food for the belly, food for the soul
It’s such a beautiful thing

You can call me a fisherman
While eating your beans and cabbage
I would rather be known by all
As the retriever of aquatic slabbage

Filet knife sharpened as the scales fly
Greazy skillet ready for duty
A veritable orgy for the senses
Pirates never saw such booty

It flies without wings
Faster than sound
Life or death it brings
The fall of the crown

In revolutions it spins
Imperfections cut away
No capacity for sins
It has nothing to say

A blast with a twist
The turmoil quelled
Brandishing the fist
The fallacy dispelled

Slandered beyond measure
A fight for the right
Concealment and treasure
Held firmly and tight

The misty figure walked slowly; as though wounded, through the streets of the small town, on the second day of every July.

“Who will fight for Master Robert?” Again, even louder, “Who will fight for Master Robert?”

Just as twilight descended upon the little town of Gettysburg, people came to see this incredible sight. He wore the tattered and bloody uniform of a Confederate soldier. His Sharps rifle leaned awkwardly against his left shoulder and a blood stained bandage wrapped around his head.

People were either frightened or amazed. Some even chuckled. He was first seen on July, 2, 1903--forty years after the battle. Every year since then it was the same thing.

“Who will fight for Master Robert?”

The spirit seemed to get more anxious each year. As though he were frustrated at the lack of response received from his eternal pleas. There were times that he looked right into the eyes of the passersby; a sight that many found to be frightening.

“His eyes,” they would say, “It’s as though you were looking straight into the abyss.”

The arrival of the town specter became an annual event. Local shopkeepers had t-shirts made up that said things like, “The Lost Ghost of Gettysburg.” Or “The Mis-placed Spirit.”

The local café had menu items such as, “cannon burgers,” and “spirit potato pie.”

Every year the same questions were asked. “Why does he come here?”

“Is he really lost?”

Gettysburg, after all, is a small town not known for much of anything. Oh, some people come here to hunt each year. Even the vice-president himself has hunted here.

Other than folks that hunt pheasants in the fall, not much ever happens in Gettysburg; that is, until the arrival of the “mis-placed spirit.”

Every year, at midnight, on July, 2, the spirit disappears, not to be seen again until near sundown the following July, 2nd.

He fades out of sight every time, right over the large sign that welcomes visitors to the small town.

“Welcome to Gettysburg, South Dakota, Where the Battle Wasn’t.”

© 2009 Randy Van Otterloo All Rights Reserved