Wednesday, March 1, 2017

His Old-time Religion Fork

© His Old-time Religion Fork

Sip, Swish, Spit.
Words danced over his tongue;
Another thought that departed,
That farted and stuttered his flow,
That drove him to delirium.

Sip, Swish, Spit.
Saying what they wanted
Him to say; madness; badness.
Got out of bed before he lost control,
Stepped off the train, rolled his eyes.

Sip, Swish, Spit.
Was that Mezcal sprayed
With every borrowed word,
That mellowed him as he
Got them off his chest?

Sip, Swish, Spit.
He sold snake oil to soothe recent
War wounds, to grease squeaky
Wheels, and exchanged his silver
Spoon for a borrowed silver tongue.

And left you to choke down every word,
To wonder from whose limo they escaped;
Knowing wood kills the flavor of the drink,
He swore they all will pay to play—
Let everyone get that old-time religion.


Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved