• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 11


I wear a sombrero to carry the dew
Which I use to relieve my parched lips
My scarlet bright blanket was weaved from the few
Skinny bighorn that we had to clip.

That’s the story I tell when odd tourists pause
To take idiot pictures in groups
And offer me paper to ‘promote my cause’
Which in heaven they’ll doubtless recoup.

I sneer at their charity, turn a blind eye
As the next gust or thief gets it gone
And sit here in comfort, just waiting to die,
Passing the time by humming our song.