Last Ride of the Pirogue King

Old moon nailed to a moss-drunk sky. Wind low howlin' through the cypress

like a choir of bad intent. He loads his sack with teeth and hides and

black market dreams. Little pirogue scrapin' through the reeds. Bayou slick with secrets that never

repent. They whisper his name in the bait shops at dawn.

"Pirogue King," they say with a half grin, half dread.

Boots full of mud, mind full of mugshots. License long gone,

but the trigger hand steady. He counts his scars like rosaries for the

dead. Federal boys in pressed shirts ask about him. But the swamp