Thursday, August 13, 2015


Here you go, pucker face; oh I hate your entire
family -  those hicks and those constables too.
Your moonshining cousins and that crazy aunt
who died in the coal-mine collapse at Mt. Yielding.
That uncle you had with the gun in the car, always
yelling at the top of his lungs. Just as much, I can 
remember that grandfather you claimed, the one
with the straw hat and but a few teeth left, always
going on about Roosevelt, or whoever that was
who electrified his god-damned valley.
You showed me once where your second cousin
was buried, the one who somehow had managed
to marry your aunt while still being married to his
own distant cousin from Wallaway Springs  -  he got
shot in the head by one of your Hackstein twins, and
they tried burying him ass-up. Remember that guy?
On his grave, their version of the eternal flame (oh I
well remember) was leaving a twenty-nine cent Bic
lighter on the stone. I still laugh at that one.
Anyway, if ever a documentary needs doing on the
family from Hell, I really think you ought to step up.
Volunteer the whole raft of losers; they'll all
look good on camera.

No comments: