From deep, deep in the cotton-pickin' red clay'd piney woods o' east Texas, I bring you the tales of my sister Bethzilla, hideous freakin' white trash welfare-cheatin' pill-popping, bowl-smoking, vodka-swilling redneck swamp thing what done crawled up out of the danged boggy bottoms of Uncertain, Texas and also of Momma, a transplanted, dirt-floored, rice paddy, hand-raised Cajun girl from the south Texas depression era. Take a look see. Go ahead, lookee.
Tags: burn barrel, steel drum, spokenword, marquisdejolie, fiery furnace, east texas, coffeehouse poetry, Marshall, piney woods
oh you rich folk got them fancy burn barrels,we jus got a fire pit with rocks around it ;-)
ReplyDeleteMany fond memories have I, of my maternal grandparents and their burn barrel. Before the age of the garbage truck, with two or three unfortunate fellows hangin' off same, ruined the fun. Just take your garbage, plastic and paper, out to the trusty, rusty burn barrel. Playing with matches was actually sanctioned. It was paradise. I loves me some burnin' plastic. LOVES.
ReplyDeleteThey make us pay burn fees for fire pits around these parts, Anon. I'm trying to SAVE money here.
ReplyDeleteYeah, I loves my burn barrel, FHB. It saves me money on trash bags and I get to pretend I'm cremating my idiot relatives. I'm just burning my cares away. :)