Mass Load

I bet youve switched legs up there in the sky, over my head while i walk almost grown with my childhood still sitting in my mouth like a dead rat. And somewhere between here and my promised land looms the wilderness now and the seasons are changing and Im not ready. Can't I work for a handful of garbanzo beans, you can keep the electricity. Ill have a wooden table, grow my fruit and smoke my own meat! ill play fiddle on my porch with tired feet to lilt over the rail and drink whiskey free it will be too harsh but it will be mine. strong as boiling metal. wood fire will leak into the wood and smoke will ink my nights. I will come callused and lean with limbs of iron to country rambles and walk home whistling inside the winking dawn. With my skin dark, my eye furious, I shall be idle and brutal. The best thing of all is a very drunken sleep, in the grass outback. In the summer winds Ill bring my bed out on the porch and sleep deeply into Sunday to meet leaves in my sheets and boots strewn down the steps. ill be old and ride my bicycle everyday, get real redfaced drunk and fly down dirt hills and walk everywhere, trampling grasses and tapping sticks to fenceposts and slathered in the redleafed dusk, cobwebs will cling onto pines and old mules will clop plop in soft roads below my window and i'll feel better and at home i'll slowly gray and blindly amble down my own longroad of death and lie down slow and gladly between the hissing of silver lawns and ragged sycamores against the lambence of dreaming moonlight.