THE CIRCUIT

So, there we were,

The three of us, thoroughly crammed in

And over-cooked in the cab of the old Mack,

A covered roasting pan

Situated dead center and ground zero

in the spacious, atmospheric oven of late August.

Yeah, there we were;

Me, Jimmy T. and the Old Man

Is GODDAMNIN and SHITTIN

And SON-OF-A-BITCHIN

And the truck is actin up,

Givin us nothin but grief.

Probly the transmission

Is refusin to transmit, Im thinking,

To complete the circuit,

To accept the Official General Motors

Junior Executive Pass Key

To the compost heap on the far side

Of the south field.

So, like I says, there we were,

Three surly Kansas crackers

Thatre just about to crack,

Trapped at the helm of a beat-up,

Burnt-out cargo ship full of cowshit,

Horseshit, grass clippings and kitchen scraps.

And the sun is firin down.

And the air is burnin up.

And the ol Capn is boilin over:

FIFteen fuckin years,

fifteen fuckin years,

fifteen MOTHERFUCKIN YEARS

and then KABLAM!!!

The whole tweaked-out scenario

Blows wide open and then just sorta

Sorrowfully slumps.

So here we are, me, Jimmy T.

And the Old Man is dreamin and hummin

And drummin out a slow shuffle of a beat.

Bellies and big belt buckles

Are officially to the bar down here

At The Blue Lounge and were in over our heads

In another pitcher of PBR.

And then,

Finally,

After what seems like a lifetime, it comes,

From the dark side of a looming

Harvest moon of silence,

Through the stellar gleam of a far away eye,

Out from under a foamy moustache

sometimes you just gotta walk away, boys,

sometimes you just gotta walk away.

-Jason Ryberg