I dreamed that I went to the dungeon below,
To Hades, where tortures abound;
Said one in authority there, “Don’t you
know,
Some people are notional just where they
go,
So in Hell, no Vermonters are found?”
“Why sir, how you talk,” I exclaimed in
surprise,
“A million Vermonters have died,
And though nearly all have ascended the
skies,
A few, I believe, or suspect, or surmise,
Have taken a different ride.”
“Not so, your conclusion is wrong,” he
declared:
“No people come here from Vermont;
Our traps and delusions are nicely
prepared,
But never a soul from Vermont has been
snared;
There’s nothing down here that they want.
“We hear of Vermonters through others,
indeed,
Through folds from Alaska to Maine,
Of every sex, shape, size, color and creed,
That we with a basket of pennies could
heed,
Who’ve come and expect to remain.
“All over America, save in Vermont,
We gather our fuel,” he said,
“But nothing the folks of this section can
daunt-
In vain all the bait of the devil we
flaunt,
All futile the snares that we spread.
“Against all the wiles of deception and
fraud,
Suspicious and watchful they stand;
They fear not a thing but their
Grandfathers’ God;
There’s much in their lives that all Hell
may applaud-
They simply refuse to be damned.”