The Devil's Wind Poem by Ima Ryma

An old worn windmill I do be
Near town of Minnesota Lake.
Dutch miller, Shastag, did build me
He thought the devil he did make.
For a while he allowed me to
Blow with the wind and grind the grain,
Just as he had built me to do.
But he thought I drove him insane.
He boarded me up, shut me down,
Let me fall into disrepair.
And old Shastag moved into town.
But one last moment we did share.

I dropped a blade and smashed his head.
This devil struck old Shastag dead.