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Date Posted: 10:52:59 07/24/01 Tue
Author: Sarah
Author Host/IP: 166.82.51.64
Subject: Living in Mayberry

Poem written on side of the bank written by Floyd:

“There once was a deputy called Fife,
Who carried a gun and a knife.
The gun was all dusty,
And his knife was all rusty,
Because he never caught a crook in his life.”


All things are equal in this town with simple waves vanishing police cars
circle private driveways of everyone being happy only at night,
closet drinkers bug neon lights to shine on fluorescent porches.
People down the street below walk and people above watch
walkers have coke and it alters popular mood and irritates
politicians on first sight, grouped Nature studiers, in dens
depressed southerners dressed imperial, garb their speak sparks.

Our town moves forward into century seething hate
toward the poor figures and furniture sitting on the porch.
No resemblance to the thrones they sit on and rain washes
empty minds, streets, pine needles, squirrels fly tree bound
magnolia leaves, a few fishing poles, Aunt Bee’s old car,
escapees without tags from old reruns remind one of Andy Griffith show
pictures this town’s July afternoons.

Nothing grows here, only trouble flourishes. Roots of the magnolia tree
hold tight foundations sing and song’s ending not quiet enough to wake us
when the stoned stop sign falls over every night. We live like rabbits in their hutch
sleeping winter out, dreaming with our broods. Bicycles stand in dusty cellar
where the cat was poisoned, and the rat scampers into shadows. It's dark inside,
but outside the politicians rain. Stilled grief behind town hall’s wall, a few dead
leaves a downfall drift from the gutters to the ditches.

I'm rooted like the magnolia tree. Though I remain dead with thought
this porch holds my seat fast, and winds flow finding my breath’s utter of how
we need extra cattle prods, or some of those commie bra burners,
or bearded tree-huggers who have made it. They need to visit the politicians,
injecting each other, snorting cohorts with cracked time and pot and free love.
Their own porch furniture swings their moods dream up these real pain-in-the-butt’s.

Whatever happened to owning your own property and simple civility?
Oops, I'm sorry, you're not here to read my lecture, but a poem.
And, speaking of pains-in-the-butt, a couple of SBI agents came by.
Yesterday arrived grilling me about violating some idiotic law
I never heard of: No more house furniture on the porch.
They informed me of the riot the law caused last week,
and how hoards of scrofulous miscreants stormed town hall.

Why don’t they clean up all those immigrants dropping litters,
crack addicted welfare babies that need baths in reality?
Maybe, then they'd understand that good citizens need some clean,
wholesome relaxation occasionally...kicking back on the porch
in the three seated recliner sofas and drinking a beer in peace
and realize that I don't have a politically incorrect bone hanging
in my entire closet!

Now my feet hurt, the migraine's back, and I feel like I'm going to barf
because of this new move into the century mislead by politicians
from their lofty perches pushed on uninformed people like me. Hopefully,
they will read this reply and I would love to watch the black buzzards,
swarm over our famished town swooping down from the Normal Rockwell sky
we love poop all over the unsuspecting grouped Nature studiers, in dens.

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