Timucuan Poem by chris bowen

leaves and sordid torture of a naturious disorder.porters in houses sure, the ladies so demure.fernandina,1884.the indian score is few and scattered, but the man, the boss, he mattered.in tattered clothes he carried a rose, to his death spot of his children.the whites and disease they killed them.he fills them grave spots up with tears, its been a few years since hes heard there laughter, here in the devils hereafter, amelia island.the lying tongue.today i get it done.i will whip tail, cotton tail and meet the male in hell.be fell before i start.if you want a golden heart ask jesus to red sea part.the fellow, an instant bellow from an alligator.the streets now suddenly and unknown as to why, barron.the foreign one did amble in.only to have an arrow strike just below the chin.disease, want and please your own.leave us alone.