“What made you buy those lots in Winston Prairie? If you had come to me I could have told you About the circuit judge, the state’s attorney, The county judge, the county clerk, the treasurer, The assessors and collectors who belong To what we call a court-house ring. You know They run the county, re-elect themselves, Play with the local bosses, stand in league With sellers of cement, and brick and lumber, And with the papers given the public printing, And with the sharks who buy in property For taxes sold, and with the intriguing thieves Who make improvements, levy the assessments For side-walk, sewers.” So my friend to me. “Good land,” I answered, “I inherited them, I did not buy these lots. But apropos Of what you say, I’ve wondered what’s the matter. I write and write for statements of my taxes, And cannot get them. Then I take the train, And travel through the heat to Winston Prairie. And I stand before a window asking for them. Your property was sold, I am informed. So I redeem, and go out to the grave-yard To look at Cato Braden’s grave, and then Catch the next train for home. A week or so Elapses and I get a letter--hum! Winston Prairie--office of the controller; Your property was sold for special numbered Two thousand and eighty-six, when you reply Please mention sale 1019.--Damn these thieves! So I pay that. I see! your court-house ring,-- The men who’re sworn to enforce the law are those Who break it, and who use it to despoil you-- Well, let me tell you.