Hobos don't ride box-cars,
Cowboys don't wear white;
The cavalry's dismounted,
Is there anything left to write.
I could subjucate my life,
Get involved in a barroom fight;
Have my memory confiscated,
In an internal war of strife.
If my father'd been a minister,
Or I laid my head in the oven,
Would they record I was sinister,
And died so lacking loving?
Could it end by a mad mosquito
Who ****** the blood of life.
Would they read my paltry droppings,
And understand the offerings
Found scattered on the floor
Next to the body
Of work.