Hayseed People Poem by richard ilnicki

Two hayseed people
down on the farm
hidden behind the haystacks and the chicken coop
milking squirting cow teats,
we had potatoes in our ears.
We didn't know from spit-shined.
Hell, we often ate with our hands
pulling the flesh from the bird
wiped our asses with pages from the phone book
and chase frightened sheep into meadows of clover.
Well, guess what?
We're on our way to the big city.
We be going down town
to Broadway and 49th St.
That's right,
and we just might eat some chopped liver
in Central Park
and exchange some Moonshine
for a hit on a big old fat joint
before we head for Greenwich Village.

Well, we caught the bus on the corner
with our suitcases full of our imaginations.
We departed waving to mom and dad and Buddy
with our noses against the window
and felt like two big ole Midnight Cowboys

carrying one bag each on board
filled with memories, excess baggage,
just in case we got lonely
for some Shoefly Pie, apple cider
and a roll in the hay with Bobbie Joe.