“I used to be a writer”

Dem rockin’ chairs be a right comfort in dos declinin’ yars, so
called Goldun Yars, makes a worn down, hurtin’ body break
out in right-che-ous laughin’ liken when Leroy jumped
da crik, he’s a mite crazy, ‘touched’ as we has a habit of
sayin’ round bout des parts, ‘touched’ don’t always now be
meanin’ bad, as in ‘badder dan a sack full of possums’, no he
be touched by da Lord.


Y’all be wonderin’ bout Brian I reckin’. He all right. He be sittin’
in his rockin’ chair and fussin’ and carryin’ on bout how he can’t
be writin’ nothin’ for nobody no how no more, it be enough to
send us even futher round da bend, not that we need no help
with dat no how. No we don’t. We’s all got problems you know,
all had our hearts durn near split clean in two more dan once, but
dat’s life, dat’s how ya know ya still breathin’.



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