Hi-ho the derry-o,
in for a penny, in for a pound,
but who the hell is paying for the pail.
Mama been dead for three days, now,
decomposing in the well-house
where humidity is thick as tomato aspic.
Eating at her gills and hush puppies,
with two hands in the bush,
a buftet for the cicadas.
And a cotton mouth in the kudzu,
leaning against the John Deere,
rusting a slow, orange fire.
Eating the chassis and her rosary beads,
Hi-ho the derry-o,
in for a penny, in for a pound.










