At the ATM two cowboy jugglers light low-tar cigarettes sing happy trails between puffs and take pot shots at parked tires Sing low sweet staccato bullets that crack like timbales and skip off the blacktop My tires shot out I decide to walk throw a parting finger and leave as a bottle of Jack Daniels breaks across my grill its contents spill

flies swarm to lap from the amber river and beat each other with flank steaks blood cured by 120 year old drink that's damn fine whiskey