How do I see and count the stars?
Like losing count on how many cattle I have,
I see the stars as a guiding light when feeling lost.
Back at home, an old man takes his donkey cart,
It is time for him to move to the wilderness.
His heart beats like a drum, moving besides the Virginia lake
He sets his sights on the stars, making his last request:
If God knows, I shall, but to count the stars before my last breath.
The owls watch and sing until the billies boil
He goes on the side of the lake to sleep peacefully,
He goes on the side of the lake to sleep peacefully.
Happily ensconced in a glimmering tree
Wearing buckle belts on his pudgy left knee
The old Vogan king took a potshot at me.
My men promptly snatched him up and threw him down
Tore off his wig, his shirt, and his hideous crown
Kicked him meanly into a heap on the ground
We dragged him by orange donkey cart all over town
By the time we were finished, his pants were all brown
He gave up his scepter, his gold teeth and his crown
He offered me the key to his kingdom, his wife, and more
What would I do with that dried up old shrew of a boar?
Anyway, I was on a mission and wanted a war.
What really made me mad, what incensed me, was Vogan TV
It was on every single channel, and how good can that be?
Next time I tell you the Vogan King will be sorry he messed with thee.
There have not been very many days in my life
well in fact, this is the only one,
on which I could say “I rode on a donkey cart today.”
Sitting quietly on the porch of my mother-in-law’s home,
typing away on my laptop, a knock came at the gate
and my name was hollered over the fence, an invitation for a ride.
I don’t think there is anything quite like the dirt flying in your face with the wind blowing in your hair,
and the way the world—(mainly your poems and your laptop)—
is being swiftly left behind you, with the methodical whack of a donkey’s back with a big heavy stick.
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