REDNECK PERSPECTIVE: Strange Things Done in the Midnight Sun…

By on October 4, 2016

A poem by Clyde Thornhill.

There are strange things done

In the land of fun

By those who make the scene.

The baristas in the latté stores

Wear black, silky drawers

And is a snowboarder’s dream.

The gallery walks have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night we hiked blocks on the art walk
and scored a Westbanker named Valery.

Now Sam Wieland was from Hog Island, with singlewides parked in rolls.
Why he left his home to roam with cool people, God only knows.
He felt out of place, but the land of lace seemed to hold him hard like a spell.
And he’d often say in his homely way, “I like that French Roast coffee smell.”

On a Palates and Palettes stroll we’d had a pinch of Skoal at Trio gallery.
We saw some hot chicks, and though we are hicks, learned one was named Valery.
If our eyes we’d closed, and we began to doze and daydreams oh so grand.
It was a lot of fun, but the only one to approach her was Sam Wieland.

And that very night, as we were packed tight around cool folks looking smart.
And the people were fed goat cheese and bread while they looked at art.                      

He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll score that chick I hope,
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t act like a Hog Island dope.”

A pal’s strong need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And he started on like a fish to spawn; a redneck hunting tail.
He spoke quite loud, and very proud of his bogus home in Teton Pines.
He mentioned a maid, diamonds and jade and a cellar full of fine wines.

Then he turned to her, like an art connoisseur, and he says with a classy tone.
“Turner’s flair is bold, a mix of light and gold that chills clean to the bone.
It’s a unique style it’s really quite guile, perhaps you will agree.
And I swear that, foul or fair I’ll get you some more Chablis.

There wasn’t a breath on the sidewalk of death as we both waited,
the words she would speak, happy or bleak could make him sad or elated.                       

“If you would,” she said, “more wine is good,” she held out her empty glass.                

Her pants were tight, made a pleasant site and I noticed she had a nice… belt.

They spoke of art and he acted his part, a poser from the Westbank.                                    

She was impressed, did not know that he jests, and thought him really quite swank.                        

She invited him home, no more to roam, to her house at Teton Village.                                

He agreed at once, he was no dunce, and her virtue he did pillage.

Strange things are done by those with trust-fund who are out to get their kicks.
The art trails have their secret tales
About classy girls who go for hicks. 
The Jackson lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night by Trio when Sam was a beau
Of a Westbank girl named Valery.

PJH

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