We came for the petunias
And the pretty lawns
And peaches to the east of here
And to the south, pecans.
Peanuts are nearby
And the Georgia pine tree
And from pines you get paper
Which means poetry.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds--
I suppose you can read Shakespeare on line
But it wouldn't be nearly so fine
As on paper made from a Georgia pine.
We came for the catfish
For hush puppies too
For a little fried chicken
And for barbecue.
Slow-cooked on a grill
With a mustard sauce on it
One shouldn't just say Thank You
A man should write a sonnet.
Let me not to the marriage of pork and sauce
Admit impediments. Nosirree.
Fix me up a plate of it, hoss.
And I'll write you a poem on an old pine tree.
We came for the poetry
And for the blues
Ma Rainey and Carson
McCullers whose muse
Is here in Columbus
On a sweet summer night
An old back porch
In the shadowy light.
When I see pine trees bend to left and right
I think of paper shining white
On which I could write about the glory that was Greece, or Rome, or Florence in the time of Lucrezia Borgia
Or the glory that is Columbus, Georgia.