Grackle Nation (7)--Holy Saturday

    
   "Grackle Nation (7)--Holy Saturday"
   
  They lack the Apocrypha and the Messianic obnoxiousness, challenging him to trust in his God, as he unmasked as might a wild dog eating vegetation and toxic waste, knowing what it's like being poisoned.  Slim Jim Grackle didn't care.  Wasn't involved.  Knew his last wife buttered the bread of betrayal, thinking her creamy spread was smooth, when fooling the mentality of masses, and yet he forgave, as he did everyone, further getting walked on, until they walked him out into the backwoods of Tennessee; therefore, they were truly happy for his exile, thinking him having erroneous ego, when they possessed a pungent passion for the celebration of life, without knowing they were monitored beyond the spying bravado of Intelligence Agencies.
   Slim Jim didn't mind.  Good old boy, petting the simplicity of Echo on his lawn chair, watching the Sun rise and unlock the doors to Heaven, him a head dropped, having lost a family they claimed was a catastrophe of his own making, yet he had kept it in his pants, knowing the sophistication of family espionage and egomania, while all a good old boy wants is the love of a Jimmy Carter, not shocked at what the government told him, but following his schedule, yet Reagan kicked Congress in the teeth, and he was celebrated, standing out, slicked back hair like Bob Barker, though not a Black Belt as was the game show host.
   Slim Jim Grackle wasn't a gambling man.  Didn't shoot shit with a pool stick, or compete against anyone, just a wandering Hebrew, nomadic in lonely spirit, like a prison his whole life, and still no visitors, not that he desired anyone, but a fruit basket would be nice, or a mint on his pillow in the morning; nonetheless, there was no use in silence, holding it inside making it less golden, for others do the underhanded action of communicative tunnel rats, rolling your reputation with double ply and not giving a damn about the forsaken.
   Well, the keys to the Kingdom were here, and he obnoxiously spit a load of tobacco juice in the grit of  gravel, not giving a damn, for as he was stoically told:   Everybody's gotta die, and we gonna hurry that purpose boy, assisting the Grim Reaper, unless you flee to even greater states of poverty--but he was too dumb to be depressed, and never running from a fight, but standing up like a Mahatma Madcap in country fashion, fueled by the unusual, as does destiny determine the deeds of every soul, already dead, his candle lit for a purpose, and some not to be understood, but to finally understand, calling out the cooters for beer cans spilled on his property, and getting a knuckle sandwich, not wearing his black eye with pride to screw an uncouth vaginal cavity loosed by the over lubrication of political propaganda, while he found angels in his mind, weeping at the bow-pointing travels of his last wife's wide hips hurting him for no other reason than to simply hurt him, and he had loved her bouncing buttocks, believing big butts to be a brilliant beauty, but you never know them, unless you eat their fruits, which are too toxic not to be deemed forbidden.  
   Echo waved her tail, and Mr. Grackle knew the Spring evolved into Summertime shine, and flight would he fancy onward, without the loving V of geese gelled together for flight's forever harmony.