Jumpsuit Jamey

Jumpsuit Jamey

I was born in Stuttgart in 1958, and grew up poor on somebody else’s rice farm, playing in canals and powdery silt, swimming in soybeans in the back of bob trucks, and climbing over every square inch of combines, tractors, implements, barns, and mimosa trees like they were my own personal monkey bars, only needing emergency stitches occasionally. I left skid marks getting out of Stuttgart, though, coming to Fayetteville to go to college in the mid-70’s, which at that time was the greatest place to live in the history of the planet. But Sam Walton, Bill Clinton, John White, and their henchmen sprayed it with money and 2,4-D in the early 90’s, and it done grew itself to death. I dearly miss that 70’s Fayetteville and that 70’s Arkansas, and when I’m not too busy working or chasing butterflies, I often mourn its passing.

 

Contribution: Milton’s Song

Now that your folks have all gone home
And I’m finally all alone
Sittin’ talkin’ to the stone
They put your name on

I ain’t believin’ that it’s true
That mound of dirt ain’t holdin you
And when the hubbub’s finally through
You’ll come and see me

This can’t be right, they must be wrong
You wouldn’t leave me here alone
If you’d a died, you woulda told me
Your spirit woulda come and showed me
Cuz you’da know’d how sick and lonely I’d feel without you

So I wait here and bide my time
For you to come show me a sign
And say it’s all a dirty lie
You just can’t be dead

You tell me how you say goodbye
When you’re as close as you and I
This great big world keeps spinnin round
And as the moon keeps shining down
A lonely man sits on the ground
Missing his best friend

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