for Michael Strickland
They'll be running
out of 'B' names
any year now and when they do,
low-brow Bubba is ready to reek.
His name may lack the seminal elegance of
an Opal or Camille but then,
how many hurricanes spit out
tobacco juice and moonshine instead
of water? Bubba. Big Bad Bubba.
He'll spare the homes of the good-ole
boys and hog farmers. He'll track down
every revenuer this side of the Tallapoosa
and Chubbehatchee Rivers. He'll stomp
every snooty-eyed church and ignore those
with overalls. Beer-bellied Auburn fans
are safe but he may not forgive 'Bama
rooters in Tuscaloosa. With a name
like Bubba, overgrown weeds will dance
with the wind. John Deere tractors
and maggot-laden car-bodies will rejoice.
Can't say the same for Porsches and Audi's.
Forget Barry or Barbara or even Beulah.
It's time those Harvard-bred suits
at the meteorological centers put away
their quiche and sushi dishes, have some
hamhocks with greens with the rest
of us, and give America a real monster.
Give us Bubba!