Shepherd to Swain

Shepherd:

Hey dumb-bell, you’re life’s a hoax,
You, box-head who strings bows,
Your music a mimicry of screech-owls
Or simply howls.
You mope about the woods too much.
Soon I’ll bring news of more than woods—
So my hollow reed resounds.
Don’t dope yourself with kerosene and lard.
The sky’s the limit, says my flute,
My shepherd lays less rustic with each day.

Swain:

Flake off, coonhound.
I’ll carve my six-point buck upon a cross,
Then brand your ass.
What business have you bringing news of shores
Or Latin gangsters hitting pay-dirt,
My woods the model for their Janus-temples,
Their columns cheap copies of my oaks.
To own some fancy-dancy trellised estate’s
no match for uncleaved commons.

Shepherd:

Soon hicks like you will disappear
In canneries or cubicles of call centers.
Outsourced, you’ll all take dirt-naps.
What can compare to the squire’s life,
The hubcaps of his SUV so shiny
The migratory birds revolve in them,
View as panoramic as a battle-sheld.

Swain:

Piss off, haute bourgeois ape.
Try bench-pressing tree-trunks with me.
You’re like a bear too used
To feeding on steaming garbage-mounds
Of dukes who’ll put you down
Without a second thought,
Your perfumed locks phony.
Why sniff for trouble, French poodle?
Trap your feet in sheep-dip.

What’ll happen when
your city-slicker patrons
pull the plug on you?
Will you hawk your hollow reed for nickels then?