Old grey

Gray. Grey.

there’s old gray with her dovewinged hat
there’s old green with her sewing machine
where’s the bobbin at?
she’s toting old grain in a printed sack
the dust blows forward and the dust blows back
and the wind blows black through the sky
and the smokestack blows up in the sun’s eye
what am i gonna die?
a white flake riverboat just blew by
bubbles pop big
and a lipstick kleenex hung on a pointed forked twig
reminds me of the bobby girls
never was my hobby girls
hand full of worms and a pole fishing
cork bobbing like a hot red bulb
and a blue jay squeaks
his beak open an inch above a creek
gone fishing for a week,
well i put down my bush
and i took off my pants and felt free
the breeze blowing up me and up the canyon
far as i could see
it’s night now and the moon looks like a dandelion
it’s black now and the blackbirds feeding on rice
and his red wings look like diamonds and lice
i could hear the mice toes scampering
gophers rumbling in pile crater rock holes
one red bean stuck in the bottom of a tin bowl
hot coffee from a krimpt up can
me and my girl named bimbo limbo spam


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