The Blasted Blast

By Jack Joseph Smith

: THE BLASTED BLAST Old ran Fletcher was eating his summertime supper Waen the bad news was brought by his brother _ They vere ripped Hell rais'in rogues Running e sav mill ani a brass Imuckle factory down by the Missouri River- But now the brother's face was ‘spitting lauzhter- instead of smiling it While old man Fletcher's taste, of meats, potatoes- and a simple glass:of corn whiskey: . Had Pletcher feeling just right too For such a foolish mean tale of’ woo As it appeared that the badland neighbor man had turned"his consistent cows through Fletcher's gate-- According to the brother: Agein — they were-out there cudd'en on the crimson pasture: where Fletcher ‘had water and like a Herry Truman Fletcher -lmews that the man would expect to se Fletcher's firey five-and ‘one-half foot frane- COMING over the crest to the bottom plaim likened to a big Bob Cat It of course “had been like that before: Qut thereS3o in. some kind of sux Arguing the doubble darn But this ‘tine Fletcher had Fietcher's shotgim and with this Fletcher-as a nmen; . If headed ‘out under arm along the farm fo go eround like a hounds.’ Away from ITS place precious top the stack on the rack From the just antique dnerican housesss: ’ By way of ths gully where shadows wouldn't stretchy =F as the home was shaken to ghostly record a mester's -vile- While the brother-then cast a dirt: cheep smiles at the process of the bitch being endédzin a ditch For the brother ‘kmew the other had also chosen the gun While the clasaic:had not lied” oan About two crezed men racing choices wild : through their equal air And now there in the stic? space _ upon the final accord Where clouds have whole vorlés of their om Fletcher sized up his slant on nis edverseries beck Who wanting his particuler devil - Held his gun level:
a dnd as a rattlesnakes hiss Freezes one in deadly silence : Pletcher put the man on the award balance of life and death With the words on the end of his breath ®Don't move" And on our unholy NOW They faced a Western sundown up from the hollow But possibly the man saw on a peripheral shedow Thet Fletcher was fair With Fletcher's gun of despair Lowered ‘to Fletcher's sidé on pioneer pride As that man made his move But Fletcher couldn't fool And the man's head was suddenly gone while Fletcher-went home to call the police” Who's property-right plainsmen lew would turn Fletcher loose And so the BLASTED BLAST at the gate Simply--sealed the splash of blood 4n a Heaven or Hell’of iron fatet _ But Fletcher's ‘reel worry becamesse Never again; would he spend sleep (with thet kind of tint on a pretty velvet dream gons to deep) fer ¢75

Original Scan

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AI Interpretation

GPT

A narrative ballad about old man Fletcher, a Missouri sawmill operator who confronts a neighbor driving cattle through his gate, and in a frontier standoff kills the man with a shotgun blast — then spends the rest of his life unable to sleep without dreaming of it.

The poem treats rural violence as both legend and psychological ruin, moving from folksy humor through Western showdown to the permanent stain of killing, sealed in the image of 'a pretty velvet dream gone too deep.'

Claude

The poem tells a killing story in the voice of a tall tale — meats, potatoes, corn whiskey, a 'firey five-and-one-half foot frame' — but the narrative engine is the brother's grin, which knows exactly what it is setting in motion. Fletcher lowers his gun on 'pioneer pride' and the other man moves, and the head is 'suddenly gone.' The frontier code acquits Fletcher — 'property-right plainsmen law / would turn Fletcher loose' — but the final lines deliver the sentence no court imposed: he will never again sleep without 'that kind of tint / on a pretty velvet dream gone too deep.' The blast at the gate seals blood in iron fate, but it unseals something in Fletcher that cannot be closed.