Slingshot Professionals - Kelly Joe Phelps

Calculated entry in the class of circumspection

Reasoning, bargaining the last few drams of spirits

The serum of one’s foolishness.

truth be told in a cold pint head

16 ounces of pure warlord dripping down the side of the glass

Marching 'cross the fmily’s' land the bagpipes and the drums

The skirts are flying high me boys, let’s bust 'em in the shins

No matter nothing knowing, nothing owing save the garden say

Of a crokked hobbled garish man with sundown in his eyes

Fifty year old walking stick worn through the lion’s head

Carrid proud like a saber on a limestone statuette the littles can’t decide

which to lust for, which to desecrate

Imagination sits with the marbles in a drawer

Slingshot song and dancing blasting out the lead paned windows

Wing whipped curtains sway this way like giant mockingbirds

Those damned lads and lasses have forgotten how to play

Hard pressed to find one ever learned how to sing