Welcome To Gnarled Town

You won't see a sign but you are welcome to our forlorn sidewalks and winding forest parks.
The painter in the coffeeshop will talk your ear off if you let him; but he's smarter than he seems; just read the symbols on the wall.
The mayor wouldn't welcome Kerouac, and he won't stir for you; he's staring glazedly at his betas,
eternally tearing each other's fins off.
The butcher doesn't say much, and he voted for Hitler, but he never sold a bad steak, and replaced a few good ones in his day.
The town hero is building another house with arthritic claws that somehow grip a hammer.
The bowling alley's been closed a year now so the citizens mostly watch the brave new world on the television screen, though they've seen it twice before.
Old man Finley's miserable company, and you wouldn't want to work for him, but he greases the wheels of commerce with his own family's blood.
The baker's a cheery soul, full of sound and fury,
and I beg you forgive him his version of a baker's dozen.
Our barber still has leeches;
and you'd do well to attend church.
And Gnarled Town may have an exit sign;
but you only exit in a hearse.