More than her pugnacious breasts
Or buttocks like grapefruits in hip pockets,
Men notice her hair first:
A great silken rope swinging to her waist
They flounder for weapons
Against her strength
And hope one day to bring her down to their level;
To use her body to wipe their feet.
They find fault to lessen the terror.
Her grandmother married her to a man with 60 acres--
If a woman is a mule, let her at least be well off--
But she left him for another man.
You cain't get her with no fish sandwich.
He demanded that she hide her hair,
And when he died she let it down.
All the men came running--
Each one offering to make her a mule.
She preferred managing the store
To managing her respectability.
Until one day Tea Cake saunters in--
Camels and Courvoisier--
"Oooh! it's a lady!"
She comes home from the store,
Finding him on her porch with a string full of fish.
"Hey, sweet thang,
Can I buy you a fish sandwich?"
southern gothic
One More Mile
I got a mile more to walk, or so I’m told
The same thing I heard ten miles back up the road
Just another mile
Just another mile
For me to tote my weary load
Been toilin’ and troublin’ all my days
Got another mile to walk to find my grave
Just another mile
Just another mile
For me to tote my weary load
I’m adding to my load with every mile
And the load upon my back is miles high
Just another mile
Just another mile
For me to tote my weary load
I slow down with every step I take
My thoughts blow like dust across the plains
Just another mile
Just another mile
For me to tote my weary load
The boss man sold me miles when I was young
And I walked them with a smile and had my fun
Just another mile
Just another mile
With which they bought my young man’s soul
It’ll crush my bones as I grow old
They’ll find me broken down and all alone
With no more miles
With no more miles
And no more place for me to go
Sophistry and Solipsism in the New Millennium 