The tattered tale of a housewife
One morning
She walked past the yard
Waving bye
To a working man he said aye
So much joy she has a day free
A glass of scotch or lit cigar
To refresh the morning
To understand what comes till dusk
It's not dawn but a knock on the door
A dark man with a wide figure and yellow teeth
He opens his eyes to see what he desires
A fresh taste of western blood
Rare eyes for such a freak hidden in plain sight
He wept his wrath
Tattered and torn cloth
Blood of a generation stained on oak wood walls
He dragged her through the cornfields
As the sun lays down
Never to be seen again
My pretty gal
