The story is told by residents grown old
Of an afternoon’s orgy of violence
The bullets, they said, left those three good men dead
The question “Why?” answered with silence

Back in ’72 the citizens knew
That the world all around them was changing
They looked everywhere, seeing men with long hair
Certain that they were trouble arranging

Hippies they were called, their behavior appalled
Folks who came to the square to go shopping
Foul language they used and no one was amused
When the businessmen’s profits were dropping

Charlie Simpson, by name, their leader became
Though his close friends all called him “Ootney”
When after they saw his contempt for the law
Local cops placed him under close scrutiny

Harrisonville, as a lot of small towns will
Had a man like George Allen to serve her
From his bank on East Pearl, watched the drama unfurl
A concerned, civic-minded observer

Parents were vexed by the unwholesome effects
Of the example the hippies were setting
They watched every day, their young teens led astray
A grudge they’d not soon be forgetting

A fellow named “Win”, an occasion of sin
Was distinguished among all the others
The shade of his skin, couldn’t help but begin
To enrage all the fathers and mothers

From a far-away shore, the Vietnam War
Cast a shroud on the State of Missouri
The chance they might fall from Uncle Sam’s call
Filled those still in high school with worry

Feeling suppressed, Charlie began to protest
And he put his opinions in writing
“What should we do?” There were two different views
Work the system or resort to fighting?

The eve of the day of the firetruck display
Friends jailed for unruly behavior
Loyal without fail, Charlie posted their bail
And took on the role of their savior

Two friends were there as he rode through the square
When something caught Charlie’s attention
Leaped from the sedan, to the corner he ran
In his fingers, a carbine was clenchin’

Marler and Wirt soon lay bleeding and hurt
But the shooting spree wasn’t yet over
Two victims more lay on the bank floor
From the gunfire they tried to take cover

His mind filled with wrath, Charlie then turned his path
Toward the building he’d just left that morning
The laundryman fell, then the Sheriff as well
Charlie gunned them both down without warning

Sirens all around made a shrill, piercing sound
Charlie’s future about to diminish
He stood his ground and fired one final round
Bringing his sad life to a finish

The bodies interred wouldn’t be the last word
Wild rumors and theories were flying
Journalists came for their moment of fame
And the stories they’d draw from the dying

One author, well-known, from that “rag”, Rolling Stone
Took the side of the ones disaffected
Eszterhas, they say, won’t let facts in his way
As the many accounts he dissected

Quite suddenly a pair of shrinks from KC
Showed up to conduct mediation
Both sides would balk when it came time to talk
For success there was low expectation

A climate of fear, from the stories they hear
Awaiting a spark of ignition
Many folks said they were living in dread
That of violence there’d be repetition

A few more weeks passed, then the time came at last
To hear from the town’s redneck faction
George Allen sought to do what others would not
As he called out his posse to action

Pickup trucks filled the square, and everyone there
Knew the hippies were in for a beating
Punches exchanged, and some teeth rearranged
Sent the long-haired contingent retreating

On that Monday morn, the town square was reborn
From events that most folks were just learning
The lesson not missed, from a weekend of fists
Would soon bring the shoppers returning

The passage of years expunged most of the tears
One jagged hole left for reminding
And the park they built there, a block south of the square
But the answer to “Why”? still not finding.

Seeking out these unknowns, a writer named Jones
Learned that Charlie had fathered a daughter
Had Charlie known then, who knows what might have been?
Could this child have averted a slaughter?