white

silver bells, cockleshells, rhymes with
sunday, skittered next to saturday, whistling
down the pastor's lane, hiding neath
sweet summer's dress, cause white
will fool the neighbors, speaks of good
girls, speaks of love

may fool her daddy, sitting in the
kitchen, waiting for the oak to give
him shade, waiting for his tears to dry
may fool old cross-eyed henry, waiting
for his corn to grow, and the squirrels
to sing their songs, chat upon the weather

may fool the barber's wife, gone to dayton
once a month, looking for a lover, wishing
on a star, and she reads her glossy magazines
delivered once a week, while she dreams

may fool the sheriff's lad, running wild
but running free, soon to leave for parts
that keep on calling, full of promises for
boys who know a thing or two and are ready
for a dare

may fool the beggar man, asleep in carter's lane
smelling jasmine in the evening, mad dog
on the vine, counting stars into the thousands
drinking rain all through the spring

may fool the churchy lass, doing deeds
full of renown, headed for the deacon's door
when prayer's are finally done, and they
will celebrate, perhaps a kiss, perhaps
a few

hiding neath sweet summer's dress,
looking like her momma in the photo
on the wall, curiously smiling, all those
days ago, when winter came but once
a year, may fool the neighbors
when she speaks of love