The quilt of not so many colours
the fates do say
wrinkle up and fade away
I drank the juice of seven oranges
and sat on verandas and southern porches
marching to the drums
I came upon a dream
secrets of savage grapes
roll into bonfires of the morning
castaway hobos trim their beards
and receive warnings
where will they go next for
a place to place their bed pack rolls
on ground that's soft and by
a dancing campfire in the jolly evening
lined by groves of redwoods
that make a ring around their
souls
where will the next meal come from
more stories need to be told
in a myriad of vibrant earth tones

the apache kid