Folly

Taste of Sulfur

Taste of Sulfur

©06-09-23, Olan L. Smith

You're a flick pickin', double-checkin',

knit picker. A genuine son of a dick-licker with

piles in the corner and on your arse. Faded

paisley wallpaper mere fragments on dusty

floors of abandoned houses, this is the day of glory.

Your children play on the streets; smoke ridden,

ash fallen remnants of your mind's ideal.

You want to restore times that weren't

so great, the only glory you have is in your rotted

mind filled with cobwebs and could have been,

now just mildew in the corner of the tub

where water used to leak out of the corner

of your mouth, as you chewed tobacco,

spat on passersby saying, you'll see!

We'll restore the rot, the hate, the prejudice,

like it used to be in Grand Pappy's Day.

Wasn't so wonderful, was it? Or you wouldn't

have hide in your caves waiting for the day a

savior would come to lead you straight to hell;

horns, orange skin, red tie, and a forked tongue.