Out Here

by Mr. K

I walk miles of duckboard on my journey.
With a sac full of ruddle. I spot my first dickcissel.
Finally, I reach the Johnson grass and a simon pure ninny
hands me a jar of
royal jelly.
I ask him, ''What's this, you freak?!''

I prepare a meal of loganberry, lobscouse and pan-fried
black crappies.
As I lay down for the night, the last drop of cuckoo spit
hits the ground.
I fall asleep.
Suddenly, the scent of bladdernut awakens me, so I mix a
drink of tequila
and marrow fat peas.
I become squiffed.
Out here, you don't want to know me.

(This asinine poem was previously published in Spine Weevil.)

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