The Mad Monk of the Woodlands

The Mad Monk of the Woodlands
By Jonathan Henderson
Written January 15, 2014 @ 4:30 PM


He built himself a cabin,
Hunted for his livelihood,
Logged trees as firewood,
And drank of his own gin.

They called him the mad monk,
A man: the life of the woodlands...
His soul never dropped till sunk,
His rough hands provided his funds.

They said his name was Big John,
Always wielded his ax, plowed away...
The infinite greens were all his lawn,
But he always shared the land anyway....
 
They called him the mad monk,
A man: the life of the woodlands...
He slept so high; the trees: his bunk,
And so many of those are abund'....

He cooked his meals upon a fire,
The fish he caught up the stream,
Venison, that old taste of desire....
Land of Liberty! American Dream!

They called him the mad monk,
A man: the life of the woodlands...
His soul never dropped till sunk,
His hands provided his funds
They called him the mad monk,
A man: the life of the woodlands...
He slept so high; the trees: his bunk,
And so many of those are abund'....