It was a spare existence

And I long for it still

Less means less 

This thin subsistence I understand 

Someday child of pumpjacks 

I sat atop an oil well counting my wins

Like cotton bulbs baled, they were just enough

A fake preacher told me I was sad

Even at the bottom there’s room to turn a profit 

I was too pliant to want more

Until out of the limestone grew 

A mound of fluorescent lantana 

And an appetite was born