Waddley Misfits
The ergley-girgley men head south,
Inverting their insides to go out,
Never speaking, only winking
At the waddley ones who wash
Their clothes in bleach to kill the flies.
Oh, the rank of it.
The waddley ones are wide mouthed with awe.
Their teeth gleam;
Their tongues are rough like a cow's.
Hair is swept back, stringy and limp.
Their feet rattle when they walk.
They do not limp.
Their clothes are jump-suits, purple.
They are the waddley ones
Who never sleep, only torment.
They are ornery to a tee.
Tree limbs would not hang them high.
Cowboy shoot at their sombreros
But always miss.
A secret falls from their lips--
Unintended-- and is swept up carefully
And preserved in old newspaper
Like a tomato in the fall.
The newsprint is contaminated
By contact with such despair.
No good comes of it.
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