Rush down to the market and get me some pee(ce)s

I have a little tale to offer to you my mineons, my delightful guaranteed witnesses of a bold and bitter world.
It tells of a man, and a truck. They we're both old and decrepit, only one was red. The other white and black eyelashed, and hair filled with yellow shades. The lack of bathing to this set of hair. He drives the truck, lanslides through hills and never ever manages to pay his fucking bills. Poor and disgraceful though humble and modest, got a pension. Wasn't enough.

He bought a house, when he was a priest and still made some money from sunday mass with generous handouts and proud outspoken argumentation in the lords name. He fiddled with a dog, they sent him to a bog. With nothing but that truck, and the solitude of a lunatic brain filled tuck.

He settled far off in the west, near Candles. Spent years writing letters to wives of the friends he grew up with, wanted to have em at his house. at any cost. None replied. So he bought a typewriter, probably ilegible his caligraphy, that was it.

Still no reply.

He went to a bar, talked with a gal. Sitting with her drink she didn't look up.

"I'm Ben, live at the bog. Not very inviting I know but i cook some real good potatoes. Spice em up and there good to go. You seem the girl up for sucha dish. Simple but grand I tell ya!"
She kept looking to her drink, dirty hair and rough presentation. She was beautiful to a poor slob, drank his ass through the day and barely saw how nasty this sight was. Took a sip of her whisky and shot a gaze at ol ben- "Yeah, love taters. Whadya put? Garlic seasonings and tabasco, some pepper on top o this and ketchup?"

"Yeah, i can do that." He approached her, sat at the stool right next and continued.

"You ain't got a name?"

"Yeah. I'm sara Ben. And i'm also married" She showed the ring on her finger and got up. at the door moved her finger, calling to him. He followed.

She walked to his truck. He stood at the back just watchin "What are you waitin for, open it, let's go. come on."

He did.

She went to the bog, they had sexual intercourse after eating some potatoes with a flittering speck of light, screeching an atrocious mood from the light bulb above the table.

He fell asleep afterwards. Found a not e when he woke up, it read: "Lovely potatoes and that cock was equally delicious ol Ben. Can't wait to come back. Kisses and compliments, Sarah." With an H he thought.

He got up and went to the door, shot in the back. She was hiding in the space between his fridge and oven. He was drousy so couldn't really care to notice the barreled rifle pointed at him with malice and contempt.

Ben never really deserved to live, sarah was an angel o death. Took pitty on men she fucked cause she was so darn ugly, delivering the blow of redemption. sendin em to heaven after cruisin through hell.

Dear Ben,

Get well soon, send us a postcard will ya? Tell us what you've been thinkin. What's it like amongst clouds and uncorkable good? A little annoyin sometimes I bet. Anyway, margaret misses ya. she was upset with the whole exile, couldn't believe she had to feed them mouthes all alone now. So we called up a social security agent, I adopted your kids. They're well taken care of now.

Yours sincerely and most regretably,

Isaeah Joshua Mellencamp, father to all your efforts and brother to all your sins. I'm sorry dude.