4960. MOST OF THE HANDS

MOST OF THE HANDS

Most of the hands are strangers, guys just hanging

around, off a little bus that drops them off  -  implements

and their tools and wrappings, and weird little plastic

buckets with their lunches and stuff. Eating out of

plastic suitcases here in another land. Home? Home

to what? That little lassie with the monster butt

and tight jeans, yeah, she came off the bus with 

them. Beats me. Sure ain't like listening to Neil 

Young or something fanciful like that. She probably

works a kitchen somewhere.

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Now, for me, it's just like headlines on an old

newspaper  -  stale and shitty and making little

sense. Names age and fly away, time marks its

decrepitude on everything that happens. All the

news that's fit to shit on. These field guys do it

in the meadow or on the lea. Who knew.

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Mr. John, Porta-John, Mr. Toilet, Cheek-To-Cheek.

In America, my God you've just got to get used to

plastic. I'm so sorry to droop. I'm so tired to drop.

Those little guys are going by again  -  laughing aloud,

and talking to each other in their own damned language.