I see by your outfit you’ve got the right stuff
by the bruise on your horse lips I see that you’re tough
by the marks on your boots I see you’ve been rough
and I can see by the look in your eye that nothing
is ever enough

you worship at the altar of mark-throughs and slurs
you was raised in the briars and the brambles and burrs
your back country ways you left at the door
you check like a scorecard your mind where nothing
is sure

a hat of newspapers you wear on your head
the headlines obscured by a crown of pure lead
your forehead the color that fell down the stair
you lie like a nun on the shores
of nowhere

your people stare at me in iron shackles bound
you rolled out the red like a wheel in your town
I have not a pistol nor even a dime
you can see in your crystal I’m guilty and thin
like a mime

your feathers are ruffled by the smallest of things
trouble takes flight in your brain and just sings
you cannot escape it through fun or finesse
your wings are weathered but worth
nothing less


Copyright Hills Snyder, 2004