when I was knee -high to a grasshopper,
this black juice came out on a hard -shelled chin,
and they called that tobacco juice.
I used to fiddle with my back feet,
My tar room absorbed every echo
I usually played such things as rough
Music from the other side of the fence
lay on all color lily pads
On a little conglomeration table
of pressed black felt with
and seemed nominees in whatnots.
The long hallway rolled out into oddball odd
beside the fly -pecked black
Looked closed on the tar -ladder street.
Up a wrought iron fire escape,
rolled out a tiny wooden platform
with dark, hard, dark rubber wheels.
Rolled squeak, rolled squeaked,
Sam was a showing scalp flat top,
particular about the point it
a high -knock ivory cup -held,
saleable everyday pencils.
I wish I had a pair of bongos