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Show Mo-good Plow Prentice Alvin and the No-good Plow Alvin, he was a blacksmith's prentice boy, He pumped the bellows and he ground the knives, He chipped the nails, he het the charcoal fire, Nothing remarkable about the lad, Except for this; He saw the world askew, He saw the edge of light, the frozen liar There in the trees with a black smile shinin cold, Shiverin the corners of his eyes. Oh, he was wise. The blacksmith didn't know what Alvin saw. He only knew the boy was quick and slow: Quick with a laugh and a good or clever word, Slow at the bellows with his brain a-busy, Quick with his eyes like a bright and sneaky bird, Slow at the forge when the smith was in a hurry. Times the smith, he liked him fine. And times He'd bellow, "Hell and damnation, hammer and tong, You done it wrong!" One day when the work was slow, the smith was easy. "Off to the woods with you, Lad, the berries are ripe." And Alvin gratefully let the bellows sag And thundered off in the dust of the summer road. Ran? He ran like a colt, he leaped like a calf, Then his feet were deep in the leafmeal forest floor, He was moss on the branches, swingin low and lean, His fingers were part of the bark, his glance was green- And he was seen. He was seen by the birds that anyone can see, Seen by the porcupines all hid in the bushes, Seen by the light that slipped among the trees, Seen by the dark that only he could see. And the dark reached out and stumbled Alvin down, Laid him laughin and pantin on the ground, And the dark snuck up on every edge of Him, Frost a-comin on from everywhere, Ice in his hair. |