There was a boy named river
got up one day on the right side of bed
so he ran up to the lake
and said excuse, have I lost my way?
Lake did not speak English.
River stood there with his pants down
pissing right into the lake.
Lake didn’t even care, lake
is still lake, river still river

The next day river got up on the wrong side of bed,
river leapt up, reaching around to snap his spine,
that felt good, now watch this—through the forest
in a wild chase for life, stops at an unlikely cabin,
gets his hide tanned for waking the lazy minister,
and also the visiting coalman delivered several exasperating
   punches beneath the child’s proud earring.
The world can be a crooked and crazy place for a boy named
   river.

A girl named Veronica Lake had it really good for a while.
Then it got progressively worse
until they had to dredge her main,
they were attempting to actually measure her depth
with hooks the size of a giant, an aberrant of say 12 stories.
But river’s story was just a teardrop, a dewdrop the size of
Chicago and all its vast prairie of concrete.