Tennessee Suitcase

I live inside a antique suitcase, with my Tennessee  blanket covering

Lights outside they gonna flicker waiting for the dust to settle in.

I been inside this suitcase for four days now, delirium hit a fever pitch.

Four days ago I been 'a' gamblin, until the book keeper threw me in a ditch. 

Gathering up my winnings from my pockets, and stuffed wads of notes down his pants.

Part of me felt a little jealous, part of me had another plan. 

By the time we got to town, I was weary. I was as thirsty as a camel in a sauna.

The book keeper got hurt  jumping off the carriage, it was the time I learnt he was a prima-donna.

He picks me up by the handle, and I'm rustling around  velour lining, in the town where there's my bounty, I hear the boys in town want a hanging.

I just felt a misunderstanding, I didn't have a problem with gamblin.

I got so behind, I was so far gone, but I needed to win back my shillings.

I was deposited on the sheriffs doorstep, the bookkeeper addressed the sherif.

This is your man wanted in four counties, for shooting a bride at a wedding. 

He meant to shoot the groom, who was another bookie whom put out the bounty to get him. 

Shot his wife instead and then in a bloodstained promenade, insisted he was a wrongdoer who ran the longest yard. 

These are unfinished thoughts, as I lay here... a rehabilitated gambler, but a perpetual twit.

Waiting for the sheriff to unzip the suitcase...

ⓒ Callan Cummings 2017