The Farm
Most peoples don’t know how lonely the farm is. I mean my sister Nancy carries on with her brown doll Maggie, and mom and dad got each other to lean on like pitchforks. My pet pigeons used to coo to their mates till Bega came along, and set them free to crack their wings over the silo. The city kids got their clicks, the Catholics got their Virgin Mary to sin with, but I’ve got no one to really talk to.
But don’t get me wrong. If you love your freedom, I live in a pretty nifty place. Inside our quarter section, theres fields galore, and tons of corn silk to smoke. Drill you out a cob and a willow branch, you can puff till your tongue gets raw. But to be truthful, nothen gives me a buzz like a Camel does.
And theres secret places you can escape to. When I aint runnen one of my 4 business, they is seasonal, I slip off to Cheever slough. Wade or swim across to The Island, the gasses going blurp blurp as your necked feets sinks down into the oozes, you end up in a wild er ness only us crazy Indians care to under stand. Click to continue »
