From the Fishouse

southern women serve strife keep lines of pride open
trees are not taller than these broad vessels femmes who
bear fully armored knights clinking from the womb but
a night in whining ardor means black woman compelled how
strange brown vassal on a bed of green needles ingests the
fruit of georgia let that gestate but be-gets no child of the south

blood tells the story do you salute old gory were you born
on a white horse or a black ass everything depends upon
the way your rusty lifeflow writes sutpenmanship if it
leaves blond scribbled across your scalp hurray
and blue inscribed in your eyes praise the cause your literary
blood wins the gene pool its a prize hide your mama baby
at worst you’re a breast-seller compelling octorune but
the best cellars are dark and earthy humid places where fears take
root and grow up to be cowboys yee-haw