Last week there was a houseboat in my cornfield.
It was painted the color of a cloudy sky.

The stern of the boat had big black block letters
holding the name Cirrhosis of the River.

It was stranded among the rows of corn
near my trusty scarecrow, Ringo.

The cornstalks rose up to surround it.
I took off my hat and scratched my forehead.

I have seen crop circles and strange flying saucers
over my field, but never a houseboat.

Though somehow it looked right. It felt right. I put my
hat on and made my way back to my rocking chair.