phony epitaph


You’d eat gravel, also

in every other saga it’s the other way around
those who do the dirty deed can everywhere be found  -A Ppope

How did he arrive in this coulee saloon
somewhere out west of El Paso?

Woody, the incendiary Woodpecker, bore
himself another walleyed door hole,

where nothing’s made of lumber,
lest timber happen (and it hisn’t),

shoved aside the filthy mexicano quilt
stood back, and then he smelled the room.

A sod affair and all too dark it stunk
of urine, kerosene, cigarettes and spew,

and even with that flaming face the bird
did waver, and with neither eye could then

he cut the gloom. Who’d never thought they’d
see the bird give in and act despondent?

He’d finally found his home where others,
cartoon trodden cull and moot, to each divers,

a host most hindered by the slur at brunch,
that eidetic bunch regarded freak, did wonder—

rabbit man and roysterer,
cockatrice and crow,

“hey ride mine birdness blind”
and, “that hand it hain’t so steady,” at

whose dissevered human twang that did dis
service, now that he’s a sot.



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