Barrel Blues


When you’re sitting at the bottom of a barrel
Thrown out all the golden apples
To or at friends
You’ve eaten some too, time to time,
And in the cider-crush smell of rotting fruit
You’re waking up to a need to breathe
Maybe make amends to the owner, whoever,
And the claustrophobia of the barrel
And the emptiness
No-one outside
No-one looking in
You’re calling and they’ve all gone
For a while you’re thinking they’re all thieves
The farmers
The clerks
The herders and horses
The friends
Fiends, all took it from you
Trapped you in it
For a while you’re sitting in some barrel
Licking alcohol dry stench and splinters

And then you get out.

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