It was way down South where Sherman had Atlanta all a-burning that his only son was shot and stabbed and killed. And to avoid a lynching for having gone Injun, the surgeon took a post out on that bloody battlefield. Well he's hacking and he's sawing and his chisels both are gnawing through the grit and through the grime and through the grue. And he's whistling and he's grinning and his eyes are both a-spinning and his skull is burning coldly like the moon. Well nobody knew how the surgeon's madness grew like a fungus in the absence of the sun. How he pieced together limbs and how he bayed unholy hymns like his ancient Shaman masters once had done. When he saw the body jerk he knew his necromancy'd worked; now until the End of Days it roams the land. And when it begins to speak, of the grave it always reeks as it vomits up the secrets of the damned. Then several graves were pillaged and the women of the village met the knife and hook of lonely Saw Jones. Well the men all had enough and got a posse up to snuff him but all they found was Junior sucking marrow from his bones.
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