Pish
and Tosh rode into Broomfield, scents
Of
Liberty and saddle sores, denied
Their
basic rights of rye and brewskis, all
Because
the goldleaf fell at others’ feet.
Not
yet, they said, a floozy by each wrist
Of
every taste in radical descent
Down
from the mountain streams with rills so bare,
None
ferried fruit. I say, no seams for me,
Said
each, blaming the other, and the girls
Sang
country blues before they had been born.
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