Monday, August 3, 2015


Redcoats and Dutchmen hanging from trees. 
Nathan Hale Lane, with all those new condos
spinning. Nothing but dirt under these dirty
fingernails. I came home late yesterday, dragging
a rake. Johnny Appleseed I want to be. All over,
that so very quickly again. Here, take this apple.
My Packard took over your Hudson, your Ambassador
ran my Commander clear out of town. Now, I have to
look at you and see you as a farmer, which you are now
claiming to be. Underneath that body-rack, all I can
see is that you're a lady, but I guess they can be 
farmers too. Apples don't fall far from the trees.
'Hang down your head, Tom Dooley.
Hang down your head and cry.
Hang down your head, Tom Dooley.
Poor boy, you're going to die.'

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