Despair Eats From A Cold Plate
Despair eats from a cold plate
It knows nothing except to fill its belly
In this never-ending jaunt to Morden Lane
Stenhouse Street and Swanscombe Road
Drop another dollar bill on the counter
Watch the waitress bend down to get it
She writes on a tablet her phone number
I call her when the sun is setting on Tuesday
We meet for wine and cheese at a side café
We stroll on Gunster Road and Haven Mews
She puts her arm through mine and giggles
She says there are brown roaches in the kitchen
A couch made of Naugahyde sits in the moonlight
Discarded shoes and intimate detritus scattered
Snoring lovers under a soft blanket in the darkness
Despair continues to eat from a cold plate
down south we love our goobers
salt em up and set to roast
eat em by the dozens
drink em in our cokes
fix em fancy in deserts
peanut butter pie
big and small all size and sorts
eat em till the day we die
granny loves to cook em
goobers in down home green beans
adds a bit of crunchiness
to the sunday dinner scene
with newspapers set out on the floor
in front of television sets
cracking shells like walker texas ranger
does good for nothing yankee heads
buy em hot and buy em boiled
along the roadside stand
spilling goober juices
all over the cars naugahyde rotan
finger licking greasy
from out a planters can
down south we love our goobers
like you done heard me said
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