Baby Cart on the Whiskey River Stix

Shogun Willie pushes a cart
parts of the forest whisper Willie
Whipoorwills and swallows fly
from hill to hill
the mirage is quiet the day is hot
the sun is burning patches in the grass
green enough but not
blood red yet soon though up ahead

The Jagru Clan has a hideout
under a bridge on the side of the park
where junk accumulates in the dark recesses
hurricanes passes overhead
a dry spot a mist descends
and their decent scriptures get wet
wetter than the blood that filled veins

Its that time of day when people stop
to play with their children
hungry lips glisten with rice flecks
fingers beckon along a sinister mile
shops stand slanted and croppy
poor people slooping with dropsy
their eyes and nose mush for the toads to
flick flies from between glasping sighs

The scene is beginning to crowd with prams
but on in particular stands out its wooden
sides high and bare of toys
just a bottle of shiskey hugged tight by a tot
swill drool at the thought of how its tropish
to take booze from a baby
never mind that its Shogun Willie pushing the damn
kid the wide eyes soaking blood visions
grimmer things than thimbles filled to the brim
blood red blood oozing incisions precise cataclisms
missing limbs faking organic electric rythms

The Jagru Clan knows their foe
full of mercy but empty of compassion
the executor of a million wills and testaments
old and new trees reach up for the stars and spread
leafy remnants of the people buried long ago
and they see from behind brown wooden glades
that Shogun Willie must sleep  mustn't he?