Country Boy

He was born contentious, “hoorahing” his way through Kansas.
He did not sleep well,
tore down “everthin” he built,
thinking biggest best.

With a chaw in his cheek, he would spit,
wipe mouth on sleeve
and piss,
loved to piss on rock.

Flat refused to change.
Never walk, he ranged
far and wide in a rusty old pickup.

Never had a home for long.
Couldn’t settle down
and never accomplished a lick.

Got fat, so he said, “as a tick.”
Still his anger raked like a claw,
leaving feelings reddened
and raw,

so when he died,
moon bright and snow in the wind,
“Cold as a witch’s!,” he would’ve said,
left the rest unsaid.

Nonetheless, was dead.
“As a doornail” he might’ve said.