in the south,
the drawl is just one
of many a
sad love song

sad?

aye,
a trickery,
it’s a
rhythm rustler,
rhythm hustler,
a vipers innocuous,
a woman’s poem
poisonous spoken

this fool northern boy,
lay on the grass,
at her feet,
attentive
smiling
cause he loves listening
to the drip drip,
of the warming venom
seeping in to his cold,
codified northern veins
and his fooling ways