The bucket seat was a one and only
Literally a metal bucket
Excavated from the roadside weeds,
The discarded refuse of some high flying pickup truck
Passing through the emptiness of his loneliness
On the way to the relative excitement of a town that never woke.
But the can was a suitable support for him to plop his boney ass
And just stare down the road,
Making up rhymes
While waiting for the excitement
Of one car to pass by.
One rarely did…
His life was far removed from the sedations
Of the faux urban stylings of the small country town
Somewhere up the way.
His home was way out in the boondocks
Where so little traffic came by
That his rhymes would turn into mumbles,
The boredom scrambling his coherence
As his butt hugged the round bench
Like the weeds that grabbed the bucket
All those years ago.
By chance a reporter noticed him sitting there
In the heat of a Virginia summer
And pulled over to write the old man’s story.
The young scribe, weened by his parents on Ella Fitzgerald and bebop,
Couldn’t understand a word the man spoke
But when the bucket sitting, bearded rapper spit
His roadside stylings spoke to the journalistic cub who was
Looking for anything to write about
In a town where naps were the pastime and
Time passed frequently under the closed eyes of the locals.
Somehow the Internet picked up the story
Of an old hillbilly hipster hip-hop talent
Performing on a lonely road for just the trees and the wind.
People woke up and began driving out to the country for a listen
To this self taught poet who favored rap to silence
And hung by himself at the end of his country road
Mumbling some rhymes with a humble beat.
He became a sensation with offers to perform
At the name-your-local-crop-festival,
Which he refused, of course,
Selling out instead
The shoulders along the lush fields of his turf and
Dropping his obscure rifts,
With the same oratory ease
Once reserved for the wind and trees,
To the rested pilgrims who made the drive
Seeking release from their mundane lives.
All was nearly as it had been before success.
Only now he carried on with two buckets,
One for a seat,
The other for the appreciative donations
Recognizing his unique talents