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?”
Copyright © Xavier Keough | Year Posted 2005
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