Square-dance, lean to your partner, ah-dosie-doe. . . . . as Betelgeuse kicks along in overalls, his feet swaddled in flapping rags and how “the dance” times-up with the rhythm of ye’ olde country mythology, faces straining red with belly-shaking peals of laughter– “turkey in the straw” for your old self-rolled tobacco and crude, wheezy coughs for the good humor of it.
Even “a hopeless fool” might find “his fortune” down the interstate of American ideals, the rolling hills and endless traffic “never precluding” your wishful fancy, striking-it off “the list” as some people, never learn and how optimism is manic. As sure as high-octane NASCAR celebrity, or a Hollywood-story, “just like the movies”– the garish, loud celebrity magazine– all “nip & tuck” and white plastic sheen of too much surgery, too much lotion, the convenience mart as harsh barks of laughter, waddle by “for the world’s chances, of salvation” with your keys in a meaty fist like smoker’s cough and gray-veined heart disease.
“Rooster-booster” energy canisters, heart arrhythmia and stroke as anyone can believe, anything. “The good news”, so angelic above “mean facts”– the church, a holy curtsy and one’s feet lapping in the river with peasant-like simplicity for holy lockets and true, godly-love. Otherwise, it’s sheep, a’buckin’ with bad, perverted juvenile-humor with the crude squibs of mentally-stunted laughter, like a line of frosty “cold ones” on the bar with a pickled-expression of screw-eyed malice.
Your democratic, firecracker rosary– pissing on a photo-copied “wanted poster” of Osama bin Laden and leaving-it, crumpled in a urinal around the soapy-smelling pink cakes like dribbling mortality. On the crude side of consensus, as life is a twisted, leering rubber mask of Satan with horns, twisting-out “like the infinite blackness”, they fear as life is squirmy with sodomy jokes, or the reek of bad pussy like a cold-sore as life is fertile, shit-streaked and empty with a punched pay-stub, like the goofy, plodding “ushers of hell” in a bad funeral suit — the tombstone of cracking thunder, the reaper tracing your name with a scary finger.
To be “morally-obvious” with an open-line of godly-credit, “second chances” as a giant, inflatable “King Kong” bats, in the wind above an auto-dealership as it’s gas-guzzling thunder on your tail, wedged in the booth at the local Dairy Queen with sprinkles, M&M’s, and “quik-cash” loans, on top as life is sweet, like chocolate syrup and splurting straws of big talk like cowboy-lore “and some lucky strike” as fat and conspiratorial as a full-moon, above over your saddle-bags of pinched gold-dust, maybe a tarnished nickel “for the dime’s worth” of credulity for the open road, your silent jury “still out”, before doom’s day and varicose veins.
The Beverly Hillbillies ride into professional-town, as you can become a doctor, or lawyer with a kangaroo/monkeyshines degree like the bag of plenty, full of candycorn and frilly-ties one-step-up from some Colonel Sanders “fried-chicken” seer-sucker suit as the shotgun is “the peace-maker”, idle justice your writ to gratified ignorance, knocking enemies over the head with the jaw-bone of an ass, Biblically-correct and St. Louis-borne– yours all the way,
“The Friends of Beetlejuice”.