The Libby herald. [volume] (Libby, Mont.) 1911-1913, 1913-08-08
"The Knocker"
By f. B. CAMP.

Who below the line have sunk,
The knocker is the lowest,
| He's just human skunk.
He's far below the drunkard
In morals and in size,
Because in sober moments
He's always telling lies.
The drunkard drinks his liquor
And fills his skin with booze,
Then tries to get OH credit
A hat, some socks and shoes.
The knocker. drunk or sober,
Seeks neither shoes nor socks,
But grabs perfect stranger
And gives the country knocks.
He knocks the stores and sawmills,
The country near and far,
And calls our town dead one
As he bellies to the bar.
He says the soil is worthless
And simply rock and sand,
He knocks the very liquor
He's holding in his hand.
He may be Just hobo
Who's tried to play the game,
But no matter what his standing
He's knocker just the same
He may be some fool merchant
Who can't unload his stock
Because of price outrageous,
Then he starts right in to knock.
He knocks into the salesman
Who takes his tales away
And repeats the knockers knocking
To the town across the way.
He says the towns dead one
Cause he couldn't make sale,
And thus becomes knocker
Who ought to be in Jail.
Then next it is a rancher
Whose crops have failed to come,
Because he went a-fshing
When he should have been at hum
So he says the land is rotten,
Not worth 'tinker's d-n,'
And never plants another crop
But starts right in to slam
He knocks IN all his letters
To one he used to know,
And tells of all he planted y
That simply wouldn't grow.
He writes all kinds of stories
To friends he knew in youth
And kuocks the blasted country,
But-never tells the truth.
Then p'raps we hear stockma an
Who owns bunch of stock
Atalking to stranger,
And all we hears knock.
He knocks the range and water,
The hay and growing grain,
The hills that scorch in summer
Because there is no rain.
He knocks the long, cold winter
And the snow, that came at night,
Which buried scores of cattle
In shroud Of virgin white.
He tells the listening stranger
Who's seeking to invest,
That the country sure is rotten
And has reached its very best,
He swears he owes much money
That he never hopes to pay,
And if he could but sell his land
There's nought could make him stay;
That he'd sell it to the stranger
If he didn't have heart,
But he'd hate to see a fellow
Make such rotten start.
The stranger thanks him kindly
For opening both his eyes
Their leaves our growing city
Cause a knocker put him wise.
Now this certain brand of knocker
Not only deals in COWS,
But real estate and timber
And horses, sheep and sows.
He's made bunch of money,
Has enough and lots to spare,
Butts afraid the seeking stranger
Might also get share.
So he greets the coming stranger
In friendly sort of way
And advises him to beat it.
To land that's far away.
Oh! poor man who's knocker
Can surely understand,
But the rich man who's knocker
Is a curse to any land.
He's 'piker' and 'rounder,'
What else it's hard to tell,
But those who hate knocker
Know he ought to be in He'll,
He keeps our cities stunted,
Our country shy of men,
With his damn consistent knocking
That he does with mouth and pen.
He's menace, he's an eyesore,
He is worse than any plague,
He's polluted, he is rotten
As a year old storage egg.
He's low life and a two.face,
-. :ky