Cans to kick, Sticks to whittle
Blow that jug, or saw that fiddle
Roll up your jeans,Go grab your pole
Wade right in, to the old fishin' hole
If you aint takin', what nature is givin'
Then you may not relate, to our country livin'
Your old pick up truck, a dusty dirt road
Creaky front porch, of your log built abode
Maple stock split, and stored by the stack
Food for the belly, of old cast iron black
If your tired of a world, that's material drivin
Take a step back, and try country livin'
Copyright © Joe Inca