Dean says he's going to leave
says his time out here has run its course
says he's exhausted every avenue
& besides his kind's no fit for parts like these
“This is tender land
I'm an old brute
I walk around shirtless & smoking
I spit as I talk & spill crude oil along the ground
If I stay out here I'll turn into a stump
or else drink myself into an early hole”
(you're halfway there, old boy, but never mind)
The plan is to head south, plow land, live quietly
slide right in among the locals & raise not a single brow
Picture it now
a ramshackle compound out in meth country
manned by Dean the hard-bitten farmer
dripping whiskey sweat with every step
& yelling curses at his field
It'll either flourish or burn down within a week
nothing in between
No need to dread the fire
you won't see missteps on this spirit-road
Do it right
& there will be plumes of smoke
coiling in on themselves in a spectacle
that means nothing to the crowd
but feels holy to his fellow brutes