Image for the poem Junior Birdmen

Junior Birdmen

"Where have all the flowers gone? Long time passing." It's that damn vagabond rooster, thinking itself Pete Seeger, serenading one of the layer hens. Life is too short to have to put up with this crap. Granny thinks we should have it neutered and hang its balls in the canary cage.  
Speaking of balls. Granny has a pair of bull's testicles hanging on the side mirror of the backhoe. Everyone in town is doing it but many are showing up blue. We have turned our trailer hitch blue. We have impressed a lot of people with our ingenuity. Granny said that she had no idea what injuns had to do with it. Our trailer hitch has a pair of balls that belonged to a 3rd cousin of Bullwinkle R. Moose Esq.    
Each night before bed, grandpa soaks his balls in the amber waves of grain alcohol. Then salutes and sings, "America the Beautiful" Life is too short to have to put up with this crap.  
In this new generation of people, some are offended by the amber shade of tobacco spital being expectorated in a current to a spittoon. Granny is mindful of that and spits into the wind when clogging on Friday night. This week she will be clogging the horseshoe court.      
It had been a bad year for the turnips. I was the newly elected sheriff of Cowlick, West Virginia. Thanksgiving dinner was scrumptious and served with love and a stuffed turkey from the local taxidermist. Last week he stuffed granny's beaver.  
After dinner, Granny was going full commando, naked, wearing night goggles. Crossing the bogs and turnip greens to reach the outhouse. The outhouse didn't sit level and slid down the landfill at several feet a day. It was chained to our single-wide trailer and disturbed the linoleum floor.  
 Each time it rained, anvils from Heaven, the outhouse came to a standstill in the Cracker Barrel parking lot cattywampus to a massage parlor and swami. Grany was taking swami lessons at the Dollar Store. She was having trouble with her backstroke.  
The septic tank was gurgling and making funny noises with bubbles rising to the top. It was only grandpa scuba dividing for crawdads. Skinny-dipping before the rush hour to the outhouse  
I was incognito, preferring to wear a Ninja Turtle suit. Dressed like Barney Fife, was so behind the times. I took a shower during the first six weeks on the job. Powdered up an impressing granny with my new crotch dumplings.  
I was the first in the nation to put model airplane motors on the backs of chickens and create a posse of deputized drones. They need a good 60 feet to pick up speed before getting airborne. The length of the bowling alley. They had to furnish their own goggles and aviator suit. "Up in the air, Junior Birdmen, Flying so high off the ground."    
The town couldn't afford a police cruiser but purchased an old rickshaw from the pawn shop. I was told that Indians were the best rickshaw drivers so I went out to the reservation. The chief, Ralph Hiawatha, was onery and disrespectful. I quote. "Do I look like Mahatma Gandhi?" Sort of made me look like a fool, standing there looking like a frigging turtle. But he did give me a tambourine to be used as a siren. Plus a little advice. "Get off the damn!"    
He stood there in his lawn cloth, later finding out that it was called a loin cloth. Resembling the red checked plastic tablecloths at Pizza Hut. The war paint was Noxzema to block the sun.  
Written by PaleSkies
Published | Edited 31st Mar 2023
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