Hey, Symploke,
rouse us up some
gristle. On the horizon
a ranch is burning.
The tumbleweeds are
labeled, the jailtime
has been reduced.
Hand over that cat-o-
nine tails, my six
gun, my seven tailors.
Looks like a squall
out here in the arid
wastelands. Of course,
April is, as we sing
around the campfire,
the cruelest month.