Black Randall strolled the main drag,
a dancer’s fishnets in his clutch,
he counted up the nasty laggard
boys that loved her overmuch.
Vultures are black vectors humming,
I think I see Black Randall coming.
With thread from a beryl gown
and nothing more green besides,
Black Randall bayed like a Plott hound,
his nitrous Mustang’s glide
upended near the mountain line
on pasture rocks he stalked,
a rocky crest where laurel whined,
and digging men did walk,
feathery ramps were cached in clumps,
the streams of massy flimsy.
Into a swimming hole he jumped,
Black Randall would seek his whimsy.
His gal was at a Fines Creek party
and there he spiced her drink,
he measured a shiner’s lunar cup
and made her strut to think.
Vultures are black vectors humming,
I think I see Black Randall coming.
Fools be lovers whose promises squeak,
Black Randall’s stature was fresh—
he stumbled her to a flashing creek
and drove a dagger in her breast.
Vultures are black vectors humming,
I think I see Black Randall coming.
