In Clayton, last golden day of the solstice

My God breathes life into me
as I hope to lie and die

With governmental oversight I know
my foot should not fail if I
were to walk the path to yonder dale.

My folk, burly and headstrong,
make pottery and sell to the
neighborhood to buy beer and kale

in belief the automobile won't break down
on the way to church this Sunday.  The pastor,

well he believes he's the antogonist to pride.
I tend to believe him if and when
I'm not pulling teeth during sermon.

We have much poettery now and have
awarded the key to the city to the garbage man.

He's figured out how to maximize beer and kale purchase.
Kind of a vampire that doesn't like to work at anything.
Says his calculator is to do that.  He runs the landfill.

     My Mom and Dad say they're going to write a poem,
whatever that means.  I excuse myself when they told me this

and pissed on the Devil.  Soaping my hands, I went out to play
and oh how the flag snapps in the wind.  I fart and grab my fi****ng
pole.  It is sunny and the flag was warm as I brushed against it

to pick up the tackle box.  My folks joined me at the doorstep
of our small cob cottage and we hand in hand go to the lynn

of the stream.  With Beer and Kale we fished the babbling brook.

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It's but a candle, what do you expect