Tornado Jim was an unruly evil F-5.
He barely left anyone alive.
Threw cattle and tractors into the air.
Crushed combines and backhoes; he did not care.
Gloated that he had destroyed more farms than his sis.
She gave him a mean finger and snarled with a hiss.
Next time she destroyed, she vowed to be worse than him.
She was always in competition with Tornado Jim.
fo'give me my suthern dialektic,
us po folk dont take de trash out much down here
Dem rashnul boys shure fixate on dat suthern *ss,
seem not to care 'bout big or small or lad or lass.
De reason fo dis fasinashun seems unclear;
dat’s not da way strait thinkin folk do talk 'round here.
We’d likely vite ya over to our dubble-wide,
but we got backhoes when we need a body hide.
We hates to see ya talkin bad about de Lawd,
we hope ya meet before ya coved up wid sod.
So mebbe lay off all dem jokes 'bout kissing kin,
and we won’t all be sayin, 'bless yo heart' agin.
Just like his custom, he sparks to frolic in the encompassing.
But when he tumbled to get back home, the frenzy was beginning.
Ryan 5 fell under a 30 meter well, a ton like Joseph.
Individuals of the small town hurried to the kid are harsh.
Horribly, the interaction was bare from the temptation.
The town is amply a harsh region of the mountain location.
Morocco's tale goes spreading out via media focal points and dozers.
Ryan was as yet alive twenty hours after the event did meanderers.
Backhoes burrow, and a mass wishes the kid's strain lives on TV.
Each endeavor to assuage Ryan since today has been phony.
Heros utilized a video phone to witness the child in the well.
Giving oxygen, food, and water keeps up with his sharpness in hell.
The errand will carry on as expected with lights, and cams turned on.
Past dozers, Ryan's parents are alleviated by individuals thereupon.
Soft golden brown, so plain to see,
A solitary honeybee
Busy buzzing from bloom to bloom
No more bees though plenty of room.
Fireflies seem fewer anymore
Where thousands glowed in days of yore.
Passenger pigeons once filled skies
But ladies’ plumes brought their demise.
Stars still twinkle but seem less bright;
Driven dimmer by city light.
More children are alone at night
As deadbeat fathers take to flight.
Farms pass to graders and backhoes.
Concrete canyons grow row on row.
Thus is paid the price of progress:
We may have more by having less.
SONG OF THE PIPELINE
Working on the pipeline
Having such a great time
All work and no play
Never know the time of day.
Toiling seven days a week
Never finding time to sleep
Work in mud up to our necks
Have no time to cash our checks.
Sleep in beds that aren’t our own
We’re so far away from home
Hungry, cold, hot and wet
How much harder can it get?
Back at home, our lovers wait
Separated from their mates
Wonder how it would feel
To have a real home-cooked meal.
Feet are sore, muscles ache
Please God, when’s our break!
Dirt and dust and insect bites
What’s that sound?...it’s dynamite!
Welder’s torches shooting flames
Connecting pipes with perfect aim
Backhoes move the earth around
Digging trenches in the ground.
Laborer’s shovels lifting dirt
How much more can this body hurt
My fellow workers help me through
What we wouldn’t do for one cold brew.
Pride and strength and pain and time
Goes into the making of a pipeline.