And Faulkner did like his whiskey,
and it ain’t comparison, but I do too.
Humid swelt afters.
and more clever roots that seem archaeic now.
The warmth and the sweat reminds me of those pleasant afternoons,
Eleanor wrapped inside me.
Blue-jeans, t-shirts, thrift-shop long-sleeves,
don’t have much use for delicates,
on me, in me, in anything.
And Though They Are Beautiful,
And They Are Beautiful.
there’s something said for heavy grit,
scarred ‘n clotted.
when these teeth get going,
they need something they can chew.
Boys like me don’t listen to men like them,
’cause we’re Folks like Us, and not boys like me.
‘n just ’cause you’ve got some delicate trappings,
don’t make you one yourself.
I ain’t looking for undergarments, darlin’,
hot afternoons, like those best for rememberin’,
I’d just sweat through ’em anyhow.
Rather go naked, honest,
especially if I’ve got your company.
