Bogart

When I was little I wanted to drive a bogart to the cigar store. Vice kept us apart. The cause is hard to say: it was the stuffy morning room that smelled like a stable, or it was erosion ruining the arrowhead trail. It truth it was a look, nothing more. I stayed inside reading and the Indians sang strange songs from their birch bark canoes. The Indians had their myths, and I had mine.