HIGH COUNTRY
Those bastards told me to go south,
to take up in some retirement community
in Florida, perhaps, among all the
buffets and bridge clubs, where I'd die
with womanly hands in a goddam lawn chair
-- But I told 'em I'm a man of the dirt
"You wanna live out your last days like
a lone pine in the wilderness?" they asked
"The wind'll grind you down slow -- grind
those ornery old bones a'yours to dust"
-- But what the hell did they know?
No comments:
Post a Comment