You were rigid, mean, and selfish But man you loved up a tornado Gutting trout and starting fires Mornings with you were black beans And fresh eggs. I recall you chasing me around With a shot gun, and that laugh? Like a drunk indian on the trail Of retribution to sundance You were too good for a middle name. Then there was chopping wood and blisters Screwing your sister, and racing motorcycles, While drinking piss warm beer in the desert What a romantic-devious-drunk Wishing on stars and fist fights. You would say things like: "Poetry's like baking cookies, any idiot can do it, the girl scouts just do it better." "The shorter the grass, the less dog shit." Your poetry was both made up spontaneously And chiseled through years of drinking, And sleeping with a gun under your pillow You called mustaches a sure sign of a little pecker And both your mom and wife "my old lady" Go from beating up a thief, to marrying a whore, And still find time to talk about Harleys , and Flying saucers while binging through Mexico. You would never burn the flag But that wouldn't stop you From wiping your ass with it. A little James Dean A dash of Elvis Presley When Marlon Brando bought an island You smirked, and said "I am an island".