Old men love to sit on benches at the town squareand tell the same old stories to the same old stories
all knee over knee and eyes on young hip-hagglers.
There's no action in that. The good stuff's happenin up on Riddleman's hill where that old shyster Bill Ludke got rich selling his farm to them city investors! Only God could make that patch of hell level.
There she goes,
and it can’t be mine.
mine don’t go like that.
smooth and straight,
right down the pipe.
she seen it too,
I see her eyes over the glasses
pretending
she doesn’t
but she does.
mine?
no, not mine.
never seen it before!
Ha! so you say.
Got a nice tail wind,
might be doin eight.
ooh! that was close!
gotta love those reflexes.
Yikes!
here comes another.
nothing like a race
to break up
Saturday afternoon.
that could be mine
but I swear it ain’t
it just moves like mine
all drunk and jiggly
spilling into Taco Bell
don’t look at me, Pal,
I just have this milk and caulking gun.
I’m a spectator,
just like you.
ass hole
heading into traffic,
now,
that first rogue.
scatter and shimmy
brake and collide
down and around
in and out
devil may care
horns a blarin'
the State Farm guy
will woe is me
again
to the bemoaning victims
of run for your life
Well, here’s my ride.
almost hate to go.
only K-mart
would build their lot
on a hillside
daring maniacal shopping carts
to turn violent.
~Rick
