Southeast Arkanasia

After Eli Whitney's gin brought to generations’ end bartered flesh and broken bones Did it cleanse you of your sin Did you ponder? Now, when farmers bury wheat and the cow men dump the sweet butter down on Davy Jones Does it sanctify your street Do you wonder? Or is guilt your nightly mare bucking wake your evenings’ share of the stilled repair of groans and the absence of despair over yonder?