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My People

by Wick Fields


I'm not terribly well bred

My family, both sides, were just folks

They worked the fields of Georgia

Sold moonshine up by Rabun Gap

Just people who survived, not much more.

Mom's people came over from Belfast

Settled in Appalachia with their thick Irish brogues.

Played fiddles and stormed Normandy

Saw dead eyes roll back there

That's before the hedgerows, which were even

worse -- slaughter grounds.

All just to survive, to sit on a porch

Waiting for Christ.

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