[My Name Is John Williams]

	Like sailors in port, lumberjacks in town had trouble with the sportin' ladies.  This was sung in the Michigan woods to the tune of "Solomon Levi."

Oh, my name is John Williams, my age is twenty-one.
I am an old bull puncher, and a roarin' son of a gun.
So ____________________. I think you' better git,
And don't you dare to kicketh me, or I'll whip you till
	you shit.

Oh, swamper, cut that knot off, you lop-cock son of a whore,
Or suck my snotty old fuck stick till your upper lip gets
	sore.
And when I go to Ludington, I think I am a man,
I'll wander up and down the streets with the dodger in
	my hand.

Until I meet some pretty lass, who chanced to go a-past,
I'll introduce her to my tool and run it up her ass.
I'd run it up her little guts until she took a fit,
And when I pulled my dodger out, it was covered with
	blood and shit.

And the phlegm flew up on her arsehole to run a flouring mill,
And the spendings out her damned old snatch woulda filled a 
	barrel swill,
And when I got to camp again, I found I had the pox,
I wished to Christ that I'd stayed to home and screw my old
	up-ox.

Oh, I did her up in axle grease and tied her in a rag,
Oh, curse the whore that sucked me up, I wish I were a stag.

	This was collected by Paul Gifford of Flint, Michigan, from Orin Miller, a fiddler from Mason County, Michigan, in 1977.  Miller was retired, and supported himself by knitting stocking caps, Gifford noted.
	In singing this unique ballad, Miller's memory seems to have failed him at times.