Ten Log Ferry

[couchgrouch]

Ten Log FerryPierre failed at shrimping, poaching and selling peltshis holey pants were held up, by an old twine belthe was scrounging in the bayou, right around sundownwhen he heard someone yelling, chased by a dozen houndsthat man raced up to the water, then stood there on the bankssoon as that posse caught him, that poor soul was hangedthat night there were washboards and accordionsand corn liquor that stung like scorpionscos neither Fourth of July or Cinco de Mayocompared with a peeper lynched in the bayouand watching gators swim for where that fool was buriedgave Pierre the idea for a ten log ferryhe cut down ten good trees, set the logs side by sidehadda use his old belt, to tie the last one tighthe passed the word among those, living outside the lawfor a price his ferry'd keep them, from prison or gators' jawswell, they caught the preacher's wife, and her servant in sinno perfumes or aerosols, bonnets or parasolsjust the sweetness of his sweaty Creole skinshe paid Pierre with jewelry, and a jug of Cutty Sarkthey were saved by the hawkeye vision, of a woman's heartthey were slow pushing off cos the tow line got tangledPierre got scared and his pants fell around his anklesbut on the water he pronounced those lovers marriedcos Pierre was the captain of a ten log ferryone night near a farmhouse, a cock began to crowas a thief cocked his pistol, crows watched the crime belowboth Pierre and lawmen, knew where that killer'd gohe'd lay odds on the bayou, rather than deathrowmist hung from midnight willows, just like haunted laceand moss upon the treetrunks, formed the devil's facethat killer stole a pick-up, but drove too far in the swampand when he hit that quicksand, his heart danced a hoodoo stompPierre saw him sink with his seatbelt still fastenedhe died with a prayer in his throat but hell...who hasn'tthere's cargo only pirates from hades carryPierre wouldn't have let him on his ten log ferryas that killer's last bubbles, popped up in the boga rookie with a rifle, saw a figure through the fogdeath's a hungry gator, hiding in high weedswhen Pierre heard that gunshot, death began to feedthat killer went to a pen, with a flaming wardenbut Pierre saw paradise, 'cross the river Jordanthat rookie fell to his knees and cried to Mother Maryas Pierre sailed up on a ten log ferry(c)2005 Robert George