Billy Bo Bob

Billy Bo Bob, woodsman his job Was a hunter of faded flannel flair He whittled wood with two left feet And used Quaker State in his hair He picked his teeth with a straw of hay And slept between the bales But never missed a sunrise sing Because his wall was driven by nails Born in the backwoods, a man’s frontier Where the only trails were fear Billy trapped bears as he wrestled gators And swiped jerky from passing deer With his snakeskin boots striking roots He could outrun the whirl of whistling trees Until one day he fell from sight As a rogue breeze knocked him to his knees Billy shielded his eyes and squinted at the sky Thinking God had unleashed his wrath When low and behold, armed with a bow Something cute and fuzzy stood in his path Now Billy wasn’t dumb, just a special type of conundrum For he could neither read nor write But he'd be damned if a furry little fox, no bigger than a box Would leave him in an unfettered fright Before Billy could breathe…beg, plea, or somehow flee That cute and fuzzy fox shot him in the most fleshy of spots With an arrow forged from the crow of a unemployed cock Billy shouted in wretched pain, as he came up lame Wondering how in the hell this could be the end When speaking for men, quoting his favorite hen The fox hungrily quipped, “Who needs civilized friends?”