by James Maynard
| Strong words and a good defense—the south will rise again. It’s the prefix that counts, fixing to a gable or portico, antebellum even to each subdivision. Which is why Coach is up there leaning shouting let’s go let’s go let’s go! May be we’re in it for good or blood or may be we’re going national from D.C. to California, but they’re making sure we keep our bed sheets clean. Any moment they’ll walk in, asking to speak to Alabama. Sherman ain’t in it, we know that. We know every God-sent puff of air in July when the county’s soggy with sun and thunder. Every boy becomes a man, every girl a wife. Coach just claps to say get on with it, bury the ball in the end zone the chicken wings in ranch. It’s been about again for a century and a half : cotton is cotton except the subsidies go to Brazil—creek shore is the creek’s, sure it isn’t going to change on us soon. ~~~~~ |
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