As I race toward New Madrid,
the conifers drop sweetly
a gift to squirrels and other pearls
and gems of God's golden twitching
the still of the night in Dyersburg
a time honored tradition
of cool cars, cooler women
and food finger licking
the split that ran the river back
into a shallow place
across Tiptonville's track
of currency in faded jeans
A cottony caravan of His
story
West Tennessee, West Tennessee,
I bleat and bow and beg to thee:
Find a rood and find a staff
And help me grow tall and strong: giraffe
My daughter's out in Halls tonight
A tumbleweed of megafright
And like and duh and of coarse greetings
"Does this give you New York Times
Tinglings?"
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