Southern twang

it’s a southern twang i taste.

twisting the black cap, it burns with the delicious haze of honey on a biscuit with some grits on the side.

it’s fifty-something degrees out, maybe sixty, and it’s as cold as it’ll get, but god does the winter sting.

it’s like the bee knows i’m drinking its honey and here comes the punishment, and i’m sorry, but amber’s beautiful.

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