Waddley Misfits

The ergley-girgley men head south, Inverting their insides to go out, Never speaking, only winking At the waddley ones who wash Their clothes in bleach to kill the flies. Oh, the rank of it. The waddley ones are wide mouthed with awe. Their teeth gleam; Their tongues are rough like a cow's. Hair is swept back, stringy and limp. Their feet rattle when they walk. They do not limp. Their clothes are jump-suits, purple. They are the waddley ones Who never sleep, only torment. They are ornery to a tee. Tree limbs would not hang them high. Cowboy shoot at their sombreros But always miss. A secret falls from their lips-- Unintended-- and is swept up carefully And preserved in old newspaper Like a tomato in the fall. The newsprint is contaminated By contact with such despair. No good comes of it.