The oil can is empty.
No one is dizzy or daffy
or has just three fingers.
Captain Hook walked the plank.
Moose are endangered, termites ate the Babe.
No one is shoeless anymore.
There is no Nubby or Stubby, or Cool Papa Bell.
No one says ‘say hey’ or calls their ace Whitey.
We’re all gone, each one of us:
Shrimp, Boob, Yogi, and Goober,
Bubba and Bobo, Sloppy, and Pretzel,
Penitentiary Face, Wagon Tongue, and Frog,
Salty, Pepper, Old Tomato Face, Piano Legs,
Boog, Schnoz, and Fatty.
We were not christened by a suit in a suite,
but by each other as we spat tobacco juice
onto hallowed ground, grinding it in a little
to see if it’d stick,
and see if it had life.
No matter.
It’s finished.
In the end, the wind always wins.