My eyes gaze over the trailor park scene of my life. America to me is an endless stretch of fields with motorhomes parked permanently on dark soil. Morgan drinks his moon shine, freshly distilled from the last night, cursin about the flies that invaded his living space. Cindy is in the field by the trees rough housing like the tomboy she is. She lifts her skirt for anyone that has two dollars and a pair of blindfolds. Dirt roads stretch across the rolling hills like brown veins. The local mom and pop gas station decorates my windows view, its neon sign blinking Mill r s G s Statoin. Miller Ferrows never could spell that well...