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Magnolias wafting through the breeze,
mixin’ with sweet iced tea.
Porch swingin’ and guitars strummin’,
playin’ cards strewn on the table.
A Remington rifle hangs above the door,
next to a nice ten-point buck;
Air so thick you're breathin’ water.
There is nothin’ quite like a little Southern Comfort.

Kneelin' hydrangeas beg the hinting rain,
bright flashes reach over the waiting hill.
Drunk and dirty, mud caked on his boots,
the screen door moans as he stumbles into the room.
Gumbo and peach bourbon shiver on a crimson table;
The burn of liquor blazes in his cold eyes.
There is nothin’ quite like a little Southern Comfort.

Dishes dissolve into shards.
Piercin’ screams mingle with small pleas,
as strange gurgles escape her throat.
Tangled ghostly branches torn between submission and glory.
The willows whisper to each other.
But the moon never reveals what he sees.
In the mornin’ he tenderly holds her
as she scrubs crusted red stains from her mouth.
There is nothin’ quite like a little Southern Comfort.

Bright yellow daisies bowing in his hand,
he’ll mention he’s sorry— again.
She’s waitin’ on the porch—rifle off its hooks,
Brimming with madness, magic, and macabre.
The whispering willows weep and the moon hides,
as she resurrects courage with fear.
Small yellow petals swirl, adorning the freshly turned earth,
and the sky graces them all with baptism and rebirth.
There is nothin’ quite like a little Southern Comfort.

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