Welcome to Wordville... The writer Kool B as Bingo Lee
Bunt-orange Skies
Burnt-orange Skies
There is no other enchanting daydream like sweet burnt-orange skies,
red with herding clouds and cowboy dust that dries every drop of thought,
she is radiant in her splendor with canvas as wide as space.
We used to sit with insects and marvel at what spiders caught,
chewing mint weed to settle our hunger's need for nature's odd taste,
red with herding clouds and cowboy dust that dries every drop of thought.
Rusted trucks, wagon wheels, and trailer-home rooftops all lay waste.
I remember May's brother, August, and I drinking creek water
… chewing mint weed to settle our hunger's need for nature's odd taste.
Texas has her music, mountains, hills, beach sand, sons, and daughters.
She sings with farmland, tractor, cattle, highway stretch, and fence line voice.
I remember May's brother, August, and I drinking creek water.
That was twenty spent years ago, before I had any choice.
He talks with a lazy tongue, mono-toned by thick hot air.
She sings with farmland, tractor, cattle, highway stretch, and fence line voice.
It is memory that moves this old loaded pine rocking chair.
He talks with a lazy tongue, monotoned by thick air.
There is no other daydream like sweet burnt-orange skies.
She is radiant in her splendor with canvas as wide as space.
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