Have not grace and it
be vain, like where’s
nobody gone in
guile nor good—two shoes
on a lefty jigger, what—now
i’m serious now, i’m
meaning sad, the sort
drawn up by slingers
sixing through,
by mammas half a
train away—by singers
half a whiskey gone—
by Lord it’s not far done
if shake the whole of
God for God-damned-me,
scraps o’ grace and good.
Oh Lord, Sweet Lord, Fine
and Lord o’ Tremblin’ Me:
—what of the chil’un,
Grace? What now says
Ye, Almighty Thee?
filled with slinger holes
as many as the bastard
boys? what blues tune
croons the chariot cheer—
my mottled, meddlin’
Mamma Lord?