Valley Song

Sickle moon hangs cockeye over the valley
bubbling pots sweating out sweet mists
rosy boy poised proudly for dinner
six o clock hobo shuffles in for a piece

mother smoking offers hobo a morsel
who glares past her shoulders and belches
frothing he is trailed by firefly
to the sheriffs house where he retches

whiskey sheriff fondles with his Browning
clocks the fear in hobos stained pants
rides the fence to the bordello
grabs eight men who wont take a chance

in outer dark the mother is smaning
at gruff goading voices in shadows
her whole wide world in a calico sack
slithering triumphantly through the meadows

in half-light perched in a Cypress tree
she lights a long loose liquorice cigarillo
'they'll never find me in a century of summers'
gonna feed right down to the marrow'

the sky was metal blue when they found her
spitting fingernails at a branch impaled skull
ten men electrified beyond violence
to a phalanx infested thrill

and the dawn chorus sliced the mothers heart out
the hobo swallowed her ring
the sheriff collected his son's carcass
while distracting himself with a song