The Sight

My Uncle Fletcher,
Our county seer,

Bestowed his gifts
On my no-good cousin Jeff,

Who had a feeling
About nearly everything.

"That guy of hers . . ."
"Those fucking queers . . ."

He'd say, giving me the eye,
Which was the same eye

That could gaze upon
A yellow froth of newborns,

And know the cockerels
From the pullets.

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