Born in an old farmhouse, my mother

suckled reluctantly.

I grew sad faced and lonely.

Vaccinations made me cry.

My daddy died. I was seven.

Didn’t realize the road ahead

carried hate and more death

in front than behind.

Ukulele, taught me some Eddie Vedder

fun for me, not Debbie

she wore her her fears bravely,

my fears, we cry at a thought of death.

Laying like a good corpse should,

good friends mostly dead

or morally decayed, but now

vaccinations no longer make me cry.