Talkin’ Truth Hurts Blues

When the bones in your back are a-driftin’

And your feet are just stones for the liftin’

When your five dollar whiskey’s all drunk

And you got nothing but potatoes in your trunk

When the pancakes on the stove are burnt

And you know by now you should’ve learnt

When old well water is what you crave

And your best friend calls you knave

When your mustang’s last race is run

And the laces of your corset are undone

When the spit glues your mouth like molasses

And you can’t find shit without your glasses

When the stripes on your tie get too straight

And the donuts on your saucer dilate

When the flies in your brain lay new eggs

And your dog is the only bitch that begs

When the bumblebees hide their affection

And the mirror don’t hide your complexion

When your blood-stained arrows no longer fly

And the fountain of your wrist has gone dry

Well then you know it’s time for a reckoning

Yeah, you know that it’s time for a reckoning

When John Henry’s hammer is your only tool

And you never learned how to use it in school

When the dust on your eyelids is layered extra thick

And you’re coming home but not quite so quick

When leftover duck grease stains your vision

And you know you ought to but you can’t make a decision

When there’s no fingers to butter your thighs

And the grocery store is fresh out of alibis

When you drive right past the last gas station

And you’re already late to your own consecration

When the rent comes due about a week too soon

And that corsage you’re wearing suits a buffoon

When the neighbors report you for your indiscretions

And you miss the bottom who knew your aggressions

When the last dregs of your stuff fall on the rug

And you get on your knees and try to turn into a bug

When all that’s left is a single pawn ticket

And if this is the bucket, man, you better kick it

Well then you know it’s time for a reckoning

Yeah, you know it’s time for a reckoning.

About 11again

Used to be an academic... now I'm a washed up academic. I like cooking, blues music, black writers, and morally compromised people of all persuasions.
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s