PRETTY BOY FLOYD
Woody Guthrie, 1939
If you'll gather 'round me, children,
A story I will tell
'Bout Pretty Boy Floyd, an outlaw,
It was in the town of
A Saturday afternoon,
His wife beside him in his wagon
As into town they rode.
There a deputy sheriff approached him
In a manner rather rude,
Vulgar words of anger,
An' his wife she overheard.
Pretty Boy grabbed a log chain,
And the deputy grabbed his gun;
In the fight that followed
He laid that deputy down.
Then he took to the trees and timber
To live a life of shame;
Every crime in
Was added to his name.
But many starving farmers
The same old story told
How the outlaw paid their mortgage
And saved their little homes.
Others tell you 'bout a stranger
That came to beg a meal,
Underneath his napkin
Left a thousand dollar bill.
It was in
It was on a Christmas Day,
There was a whole carload of groceries
Come with a note to say:
“Well, you say that I'm an outlaw,
You say that I'm a thief.
Here's a Christmas dinner
For the families on relief.”
Yes, as through this world I've wandered
I've seen lots of funny men;
Some will rob you with a six-gun,
And some with a fountain pen.
And as through your life you travel,
Yes, as through your life you roam,
You won't ever see an outlaw
Drive a family from their home.
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Notes: Here is the establishment’s version (Time Magazine, October 22, 1934). If you never thought about it, Time and every other mass circulation magazine and newspaper in the USA belongs to billionaires, who in almost every case, made their fortune thinking nothing of charity, nothing of driving “a family from their home.” The Pretty Boy Floyds of the world are their enemies. They want us to think that these pretty boys are our enemies, but are they? As far as they are concerned, the Robin Hoods of this world pose a much greater threat to their wealth and power than the Boston Strangler. A Robin Hood—and any compassionate free thinker—exposes the injustice of our system, as well as the narrow outlook, thoughtless lifestyle, and shaky morality of the Windsors, Kennedys, Melons, Rockefellers, Bushes, Cheneys, Kerrys, and Gates. Anyway, here’s Time’s version of Floyd’s life:
Born 30 years ago on a Georgia farm, "Pretty Boy" Floyd moved with his parents at an early age to the Cookson Hills District of the Oklahoma Ozarks. There he got the nickname of "Choc" and a bad reputation. At 18 he robbed a neighborhood post-office of $350 in pennies.
A three-year apprenticeship in the St. Louis underworld landed him, in 1925, in Missouri Penitentiary for a payroll robbery. There he peddled drugs, struck down guards, and met "Red" Lovett, who teamed up with him on his release in 1929.
For the next four years he robbed rural banks, taking on new partners as his old ones fell dead by the wayside. Whenever pursuit got too close, he retired to the Cookson Hills where he reputedly keeps a string of mountaineers in funds in exchange for their close-mouthed hospitality. A murderously cool shot, his trigger finger has already accounted for at least six deaths. Fond of flashy clothes, he likes to show his bravado by returning to his home town, Sallisaw, Okla., for brief visits. He is wanted by the Federal Government for two murders, two mail robberies.
Less than 24 hours after Federal agents announced that Floyd was wanted as one of the Union Station killers, he was flushed out of an Iowa farm by two peace officers. In his first brush with authority this year, he showed that he had lost none of his finesse. Jumping into a car with two companions, he led the police on a wild chase to an empty house at the dead end of a road. There he turned on them with a machine gun and automatic rifles, shot his way out and away.