The Andrew Tiller Saga

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16601 Biltmore Ave., Cleveland 28, Ohio

Thirty drops of water, ninety pounds of steam,
Little Andy Tiller and his threshing machine.
When he blew his wild cat whistle
As he chugged into the yard,
All the kids with glee came running
For to them he was a bard.
But the farmers held their horses,
The women held their ears,
For the sound of that steam whistle
Signaled another threshing year.

Andy was a vain man, he loved publicity,
He hired a commercial artist to gold letter for a fee.
On his shining red sep-rator near the sign of 'THE FARMERS' FRIEND',
Glared out in blazoned letters, 'ANDREW TILLER - THRESHERMAN!'
No actor on the avenue was ne'er so blessed as he,
To display his name where'ere he went on a portable marque.
He threshed for Uncle Harry, he threshed for Uncle Tom,
In fact, he threshed for everybody as the seasons come.
The women all adored him as he travelled on his route.
Their culinary artistry - his flatter left no doubt.
But the men were not so gullible, as their female counterpart,
His flattery got him no where, they knew him from the start.
Andy he was crafty, subtle when he was pressed,
As Uncle Ben would tell you, as each season progressed.
He promised every farmer that 'I'll take you as I go,'
However, past performances - they knew it wasn't so!
He grabbed up all the bigger jobs, like the Lytles and the Becks,
The little guy could wait for weeks, the hindmost take the rest!

Andy had his troubles, he was plagued financially.
T'was due to some high living- he was pressed with C.O.D.
The bankers finally called a halt on any further credit,
'Cause Andy fell too far behind in making regular payments.
To end this curious story of this swashbuckling, hapless man,
His farmer friends with pity, devised a helpful hand.
They satisfied his creditors by lifting Andy's lien,
And put him back in business with his threshing machine.

-Anonymous