Plenty of Fishermen
But sometimes it happens that way. Gets ya right between the skittles. Scuffed up and written spin. Callin’ mama like the cows had come to brought you home. Screaming daddy like they did. Auntie Ann and Uncle Joe and Cousin Sam all gather round, but the gather done reaped the bottom buttons of your soul-shirt’s buttonholes, flappin’ open in the wind and just a wailin’ like the very fibers of your moment of creation had been filleted and spent, but they hadn’t–just at the buttonholes. They made for things like that, though it don’t mean it don’t burn the aura of your being like fire fright and acid bath ten-thousand times below. Rippin’, tearin’, nostrils flarin’, hot I got ten trumpets blarin’, joined now by the poppins pound, the orchestra, that wailin’ sound.