Daddy goes.
     Trolling and trawling and crawfishing and crabbing and 
bass-boating and trestle-jumping bare into rust-brackish water 
and cane-poling for bream and shallow-gigging too with a 
nail-pointy broomstick and creek-shrimping and cooler-dragging 
and coon-chasing and dove-dogging and duck-bagging and 
squirrel-tailing and tail-hankering and hard-cranking and -shifting 
and backfiring like a gun in his tittie-tan El Camino and 
parking it at The House of Ham and Dawn’s Busy Hands and
Betty’s pink house and Mrs. Sweatman’s brick-house and 
Linda’s dock-facing double-wide and spine-leaning Vicki 
against her WIDE-GLIDE Pontiac and pumping for pay at Ray 
Wade's Esso and snuff-dipping and plug-sucking and 
tar-weeping pore-wise and LuckyStrike-smoking and Kool 
only sometimes and penny-pitching and dog-racing and bet-losing 
cocksuckmotherfuck and pool-shooting and bottle-shooting over 
behind Tas-T-O’s Donuts and shootin’ the shit and chewin’ the fat 
and just jawin who asked you and blank-blinking quick back at 
me and whose young are you no-how and hounddog-digging 
buried half-pints from the woods.