by Phil Huffy
Near ball fields and the picnic park
where joggers glide and lovers gaze,
a train of excremental sludge
awaited landfill trucks for days.
The title “Alabamy Bound”
that once belonged to music, sweet
had been applied to tons of waste
fermenting in the evening heat.
What sorry leadership indeed,
what governmental laissez faire,
to leave the townsfolk crying “foul”
with little help to clear the air.
Though Yankee pot roast stirs the soul
and teases, fragrantly, the tongue
no accolades of any kind
were likely heaped on Yankee dung.