He sang Ohhhhh-ohhhh, De-e-eath while she
went down in the river to pray, without an inclination
as to whom the crown might belong once they reached
the end of that long, winded highway that neither really
cared to travel: one a treasure trove of marketable madness
sent to his speaker like a hawk to a flame with banjos bopping
in the background to his once playful now solemn tune,
the other a baby dressed in white but sullen beneath
with browns and reds of demons that danced around her,
all the while she singing how she'll fly away, oh glory.
Shouldn't it be the other way around? Shouldn't the sinner
praise God while he lives in glory down here on earth?
and what makes the righteous so assured of their righteousness
other than a spinning spine beneath the skin that whistles
"You're right, you're right"? All others are gone
in the cotton and the corn, as they say.
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