Ode to a Rabbit's Foot
Hi Buggs
O, the only good bunny in Ozland is mixamatosis dead
says a country of National leaders in a party mood
and as the landed gentry always wins I'm here
in saintsville, karked but not forgotten.
O, nine tenth's of me landed in a landed gentry's
stew and and if I hadn't put my foot in
that farmer's trap I wouldn't have stiff toes
swinging here like a chandelier on his so-called rear-view
(the thing by itself has no meaning if never used).
O, if you could only see the other big thing
that sits on the driver's side spread tanked-top,
sideways, past the gear stick and brake you'd
understand the meaning of 'rear-view!'
O, still here I swing in my fur prowess sharing
some silver cross as two's company while I cringe
on conversations of 'lucky, hip hop, & magic carrots.'
O, I once had a gift for the stage held a position
in a circus band where Marg and me surfaced from our
warm confines of tailored hat and interupted privacy (duh!)
O, I sprang to his command at what seemed like a year
living off carrot crops and the art of his hand. Slight
of hand there's a laugh - with six of us.
O, by all intense and purposes, I am his lucky charm
a human trick to cut down the rabbit numbers in this
fair land (stopped me fair smack in the middle of my
carrot munching I can tell you).
O, you do have to laugh, and fight for the right
of life and give way to the left.
O, it's a joke if you wet your pants past caring
when removing nails from window glass as he shifts
six gears in traffic lanes of leadened shoes.
Swear, oy, to hear him swear a few hairs would stand
on a stuffed hare's head. But here I am his patron
saint and Christopher and me who ramble here
both confer - no one's lucky - with a mad trucky.
Helen Hagemann
>From: "Chris Hayden" <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: [log in to unmask]
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: SAINTS
>Date: Wed, 16 Aug 2000 13:32:08 CDT
>
>
>I knew a saint
>
>A hope-to-die Holywarrior (wasn't no coward soldier) strict straight and
>narrow like a saint supposed to be
>
>When he was just papa to me we wuz cool but when the scales fell from mine
>eyes and I beheld divinity I threw stones too he knew he'd have to take
>the
>blows but that one was mighty mighty low
>
>O people I really seen talked to and touched up a saint
>He called me son
>So how come they aint no halo round my brow
>See I ate the fruit I tasted the forbidden knowledge I was college
>educated
>see he could tell me how it oughtta be but I could hip him to how it
>really
>is He couln't dig it
>If thou Sprach to God before you peek at This Week with Cokie Roberts
>verily thou hast thine own reward
>
>These here times aint for saints
>This be America in the 21st Century fool no rule of Gold or Silver
>But of Brass
>And Noble Everyman's an ass that'll burn you at the stake if you try to
>save
>his soul he don't wanna love his brother he wants to boost himself up by
>steppin' on his neck
>He's hocked the whole Armor of God at his local pawnshop for a rock
>
>This aint no time for saints
>Neither Stephens nor Peters or Pauls nor Kings nor Gandhi's
>Czar Nicholas is folks idea of a self-sacrificin' spritual leader
>
>No shining visions righteous prognostications or acts of faith
>Just gray murmurings, vague fears
>Make a Joyful noise to hymmorhoids
>Hear! The Day of Judgment Gnaws your ear
>And it aint no time for saints
>
>Chris Hayden
>________________________________________________________________________
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