she's a dance floor
on the desert
of a serperntine's spleen
like a bed post
from a rapture unrehearsed
she's a waitress
plump and fiery
in a canker-pink saloon
tastin burn worms
crawlin round her
she's a ragamuffin spice
(I've come for those dead worms
foot and feet clawin
bitin the battered hinges
right off of Cymbelline's horse.)
"Him, he comin, send cried-cries up to Custer, now!"
warns Blink Tote, hangin hart high
round the corner.
"Him, he flimsy, he'd sweep you side,
he'd swoop ya hind any sweet-melonned fancy maid,"
warns Blink Tote, pointin to
a sweet-melonned fancy maid-a-brewin,
she's-a-keepin a couple circles clean,
ready for some Come-Forward.
Now the heavy dumb brewster come forward
with a blade spikin straight out from his tongue,
humongous belly-warts the size of pin-cushions eatin at his knees
comes to me with all the gaul of Saul,
"Hey, shem, sham, yum, ya buttered fear,
you none done be no good here,
you'd best pound out beside or beneath the next plaid bounty,
because we's about hood got ready to roll"
and beside his cycle
struts the waitress plump
of ragamuffin spice, clingin to him like a damp doornail
or a horse hoof heavin up a mudclot
tryin to get somethin rumblin
she knows she can't
she no good
and never will.
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