Cracker

A Forerunner will bounce down the old clay road
Spreading gravel across the lane
And there is little agriculture being practiced
As it once was when every little bend
In the road was covered with white lint
At the end of the Fall
Running past an old man and his woman
Tasting kaolin in the dusty way
Heading downwind toward the creek

And my daddy said you couldn't trust them,
We don't use those terms anymore,
Of course, I see them driving their slick cars
Down the highway, looking so damn smug
And I might not let the words trip,
Like my old pap might have, once upon a time,
But the words do haunt my mind

Not much different really:
No more yellow dog democrats
Or FDR on the ballot every four years
But this Republican votes like his daddy
And the faces and names seem the same

Just an absence of mules to crack a whip over
Like they used to in the day
And the hot August sun is still beating down
A flaming yellow ball in the sky,
Heat and humidity still laying heavy
And boy, I would love to hear that crack again.