Randy's Mason Jar

Randy grew up in Norwichtown. Where the winters bite, and the sky

turns brown. He never fitted in. No, he never belonged.

Just hummed strange melodies, low and long. He lived out back of his

mother's place. With a quiet laugh and a sideways face. Not much for

crowds or the local bars. He kept odd treasures in old glass jars.

Oh, Randy. Why are you keeping what you should throw away?

You say one man's trash is another man's DNA. Oh, Randy.

They'll never understand who you are. You keep your dreams and your toenails in a