I’m going to to a reading of one of my own poems that I wrote. It lends itself to the speech well with some of the similes that are used. Though I think that it might have come across more southern in my recording than Western but I’ve always felt like those two are really close in dialects. Here is the poem that I wrote.
By: Kim Sealock
I can tell you it didn’t hurt
as much as I thought it would.
What hurt was when the doc
plunged his forceps deep into my shoulder.
The laudanum didn’t
dull the pain.
I could feel the cold forceps
fumbling and shaking deep
inside my fevered body;
never quite grasping the bullet.
Until finally with luck
the doc gripped the bullet
and tugged it up, with the same force
as an eager child tugs on the rope,
when trying to win a game of Tug-of War.
I screamed as the iron slug
tore its way out
the same way it had entered.
I wasn’t the only one screaming
there in that tent.
Billy Joe Williamson
is screaming as a needle binds his skin together.
is screaming as the saw makes its way through his bone,
with the sound of nails on a chalkboard.
is screaming because he sees the light
and can’t remember how many Hail Mary’s he was supposed to say.
There were many others screaming
from our regiment.
My screaming stopped briefly
once the slug had been freed
from the muscled home
it had made itself.
The doc set my skin on fire
with whiskey in my open wound,
it hurt like a thousand tiny devils
trying to rip every nerve in two.
The doc bandaged me up
I shrugged on my grey jacket
grabbed my musket
and wobbled out of the tent.
The doc yelled at me to take it easy.
I buttoned my Virginia buttons
and told him colonels never quit.