Uncle Willie
The snotty snow and kickless pot flushed my Uncle Willie out.
Never avuncular, Archie the Bunkerer, never one to pout,
his wife’s bitching, his itching to fly--did I fail to mention the Stout?--
and he's off to begin a whirlwind of sin and don't give a damn who knows.
Bought him some shades, some zip and pommade, a closet of boogy-ty clothes,
then set out to dance the interstates, wherever the wild wind blows.
Maestro of bull and ballyhoo he spit-blistered every dive.
The dance floors whimpered. The bassists bled. The juke. The jump. The jive.
The women begged and begged: no more! and crawled out barely alive.
To sea went he, en plein air, said he, the never anywhere,
The water and wind, the salt and fin--he writes: “I’ve money to spare.”
There in Tahiti--where we’d like to be—as we dream of his Devil may care.
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