Now that conjures up an image:
The sun's hangin' low over the Arbie's sign. It's the end of another long day for the buggy wranglers. A long day of wraslin' buggies, cuttin' out carts and herding 'em into the mall - All the while, fighting off buggy-rustlers and dodging distracted drivers. The cart-pokes gather 'round the corral for an impromptu rodeo. Before long, someone's pulled out a guitar and is singing "Buggies Lament " as he sits on the top rail, slouched over the instrument with a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, one eye squint tight against the smoke:
Whoopie-ti-yi-yo, get along you little buggies
It's your misfortune, t'ain't none of my own
Whoopie-ti-yi-yo, get along you little buggies
You know that the Loblaws will be your new home.
It's twenty four-seven that we round up the buggies
We push 'em and shove 'em and bend up their wheels
We round up the loose ones, line 'em up by the score,
Then send them damn buggies a-rattlin' though the front door.
Someone else is passing 'round a hip flask of cheap rot-gut whisky. An injured cart-poke is helped up after being tossed from a cart. He takes an extra swig as he picks grit from the road-rash on his elbow.
As the sun sets behind the the Red Lobster a cool breeze picks up and fluffs flyers and coupons left in the buggy baskets. The conversaton inevitably turns to the buggy stampede of '03. It's a hard life on the asphalt desert. Hard and short and spent like summer wages.
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I'll need to get some good images to go with this :o)
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