Sam with the Showing Scalp Flat Top

Sam with the showing scalp flat top,

Particular about the point it made.

(I got it . . . )

Why, 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 music for a black onyx.

My entire room absorbed every echo.

The music was . . . thud like.

The music was . . . thud like.

I usually played such things as rough-neck and thug.

Opaque melodies that would bug most people.

Music from the other side of the fence.

A black swan figurine lay on all color lily pads.

On a little conglomeration table of pressed black felt.

With same color shadows, in seamed knobbed knees, and what-nots.

The long hallway rolled out into oddball odd.

Beside the fly-pecked black doorway,

That looked closed on the tar-lattice street.

Up a wrought iron fire escape.

Rolled out a tiny wooden platform with dark, hard, dark rubber wheels.

Roll, skreek! Roll, skreek! Roll, skreek!

Sam with the showing scalp flat top,

Particular about the point it made.

Sam was a BASKET CASE!

A hardened dark ivory clip held . . . saleable everyday pencils.

I wish I had a pair 'o bongos!

Bongo Fury!

Bongo Fury!

Oowwwww! Bongo Fury!

(Boogie!)

Bongo Fury!

Bongo Fury . . .

Bongo Fury . . .