Bar the Black Sheep

Bar the black sheep.
Too fly-blown, no seeds sewn.
Too dry, scorched earth fried.
Nothing left to keep,
Too empty to weep.

Back-burn for the summer.
Crops dead, sheep dead.
A brown bit dad badly.
Nothing left, dad dead.
The past was train wreck
and mother had rope burns around her neck.

Bail for some money.
Leased the homestead:
Land was dead, they said.
But now it good for growing grapes.
I feel stupid, I feel raped
And share the farmer’s sentiment.

Bar fly for hours,
Bitter tasting, humbling and lasting.
Wasting away in a flesh-casting of a man.
If my folks could see me now.