Send me away to some Dixieland town,
to some one-bank, water-tower, small-time town,

with simple backwoods thinkers,
and boys playing hooky with sinkers.

Send me away from these weak city girls,
with their sleek plastic looks
and their chic, stylish curls.

Give me instead those natural ladies,
in hand-me-down calico skirts.

Give me the girls who brush their hair twice,
then frolic with dogs in the dirt.

I will always strive to impress
a woman in a home-made dress.

But I will never apply my modest ploys
to the wooing of ladies
who thrive on city joys
and the jive of city boys.

Stars of amity
gleam in your eyes.
Ships of solace
sail your lips.

I find in your hair
compatible finches,

and in your arms
a universe
of calm.

Steadfast and thin,
the Sorcerer's waves
roll in and in,
like flowing, shaken gin,
spilling on a flat beige floor.

A million out-flung bubbles hiss,
a billion grains of sand cavort,
and, in the furor, twist.