Gunny Boys October o2, 2o15

Stuff happens sometimes in life and you just feel like you need to say or try to do something. Another Mass Murder yesterday. I wrote a bit about it on The Daily (W)Rite but not very much. Why. Well, because it happens so often these Mass Murders that I'd just be repeating myself.

The poem I'm posting is an old poem about Mass Murder. Well, maybe it's more about our reaction as American citizens to such atrocities. I think it's obvious what I'm talking about in this poem, but you never can tell. Let me know what you think.

Gunny Boys

The gunny boys ride high today, they’re shootin’ up the mornin’ sky today.
Ragged jeans and tractor hats, six packs of beer, all blurry eyed.
They beat the dawnin’ sun into submission with their semi-automatics,
and their hallow pointed ammunition. They don’t need permission
‘cos the Bill of Rights done give ’em liberty to do just what the heck
they please on private property. The stratosphere is free, you see,
it don’t belong to you nor me, to none but God Almighty! Yes, and
He, Himself sports a B.A.R. He done scored in that war way back
in ‘44. So, He don’t mind a few stray rounds a buzzin’ by His golden
crown . . . although His angels up on high do tend to frown,
become a bit alarmed when redneck gun boys armed with AK-47s
blow to waste their sweet suburban homes in heaven.

 

My dog and me sit on the porch a scratchin’ at our fleas, we watch them

drunken gunny boys across the gravel street blow tiny holes in ever after.
How they smirk each time the blast sends mama’s scrawny cat a runnin’
for the cover of my daddy’s beat up Ford— But oh my Lord.
That skinny redneck with them sharp gray eyes that dirty AC/DC T-shirt
tied around his scarecrow waist . . . Yeah, that goober’s lookin’ right at me
as he humps a 12 gauge pump and licks his lips and moans and grunts and groans—
Man, it’s  the only lovin’  that boy’ll ever know.

 

Luckily for me, a flock of barnyard geese take to air; AC/DC locks

his red-eyed stare on them . . .  and suddenly, he starts a singin’
softly a good ol’ Sunday hymn :

 

Go tell it on the mountain

Over the hills and far away
Go tell it on the mountain
That Jesus Christ is born . . .

 

And as the friendly birds majestically ascend,

they gracefully circle young AC/DC’s greasy, redneck head . . .
and then, and then . . . BLAM! BLAM! BLAM…!
Three giant birds hit ground like lead . . . dead. 
All the other geese flee for the shelter of the Blackjack trees
on the far side of the fence. AC/DC’s drunken friends,
they look at him, surprised . And he just smiles a toothy grin says, “What?”
And boy, they laugh, they laugh so hard, they laugh so loud,
they slap ‘im proudly on the back as they stagger to their truck.
And dog and me watch helplessly as the pickup rumbles out of sight
leaving in its violent wake red clouds of bloodied earth and down
that settle with a graveyard hush upon the recently deceased . . . geese.
Dog, he gazes up at me, but I can’t look at him. That mangy
cat crawls out from underneath my daddy’s car and joins us on the steps.
My daddy’s flathead Ford . . . That damn thing . . . it never ran for shit.
Woodie o1-o4-13 (rewrites o3-o4-13, 11-1o-13, o1-2o-14, 1o-o2-15 )