Creative Writing Assignment 2 -Narrative Poem

I was assigned the task  to write a narrative poem and by accident wrote a dramatic monologue that my professor actually liked:

              Swamp Rose

Old Tony Todd wanted to find a woman

of quality, who at least didn't have the clap

So he got him one of them mail-order brides.

Rose  was  from Ireland as I recollect.

I don't remember her last name, Mc somethin'.

He had  to go all the way to Wilmington

to pick her up from the docks.

When she arrived at the logging camp

she caused quite a hubbub,

we all wanted to get a look at 'er.

She weren't near as purty as Old Tony and us had  hoped

and she was a bit long at the tooth,

but Tony weren't exactly no Gary Cooper,

and there ain't much in a loggin' camp

to compare her to.

She was friendly enough, but 

I couldn't hardly understand  a thing she said,

but I doubt she could understand us  either.

She was a big strappin' girl

with curly red hair and green eyes,

and took  to  loggin' right away,

so I reckon Old Tony was pretty happy.

She had only been here about a year

when Old Tony up and died,

right there in his cabin.

You can imagine there was a lot of joking in camp

about what actually killed him.

She mourned  for a little while

and then went right back  to work.

She stayed in their cabin, minded her own business

and didn't look to have any intention

of going back to Ireland on no boat.

A few guys tried  to court her

and had nothin' but bruises to show.

One of them Johnson boys,

they are always up to no good,

tried to break into the cabin

and climb in bed  with her

She cut his pecker  clean off

with a buck skinner knife.

After more pain than I can imagine,

and more blood  than I thought a man held,

he finally died, which is just as well,

as it ain't much worth livin' without a pecker.

Rose disappeared into thin air.

We all think the Johnson boys kilt her.

It is easy to dump a body in the river.

It has been done before.

But that is another tale.

Lots of people claim to have seen her

through the many years since,

hauntin' the banks of the Waccamaw.

I don't know who started calling her

Swamp Rose, or when, but it stuck.

And  you know what? All them mean old

Johnson boys is dead. 

And not fall asleep, peaceful like, deaths. 

They was all kilt outright.  Weren't pretty.

Sometimes at night there are sounds,

I have heard 'em.

Sounds that ain't natural. 

That don't come from no animal or bird

I ever heard of.  Human like:

Wails and howls, moans  and screams.

The kind that make the hair

on  the back  of your neck stand up. 

I have no doubt that she is out there

Now my beer is empty and I talk better

when  my  tongue is wet.  

And I think better when my memory is greased.

After all,  some of this tale is 60 years  ago.

A feller can fergit.