Hillbilly Charlotte was a woman mean
Dressed like the homeless, was never clean
Smelled worse than a shaggy smelly skunk
Pungent as ground beef left in a trunk
Move over Charlotte, get out of the way
You’re not going to ruin my day-to-day
I refuse to stand downhill to you
You smell like a puppy’s worst doodoo
Hillbilly Charlotte clean up your act
Shampoo your hair and try to stay on track
Wash your body with something smelly sweet
For the neighborhood this would be a treat
Move up Charlotte, do the right thing
Make yourself lovely, give us a zing
Do your best, impress us all now
Be a role model, become a wow
Hillbilly Charlotte clean up your act
Shampoo your hair and try to stay on track
Wash your body with something smelly sweet
For the neighborhood this would be a treat
Charlotte, if you do the right thing
You will make us happy, from peon to king
Maybe even make a new friend or two
Just do what people are meant to do
Hillbilly Charlotte clean up your act
Shampoo your hair and try to stay on track
Wash your body with something smelly sweet
For the neighborhood this would be a treat
When I was young
For 25 years in my twenties, thirties and forties
I lived off grid up in the hills
And we hillbillies all thought ourselves
Superior to the valley dwellers.
Looking back now, I’m not exactly sure why,
But I think it had something to do
With having a better view and a harsher lifestyle.
Now I live in the valley
And I know it’s superior for a variety of reasons
Grid power, unlimited water and proximity to groceries
Being high on the list.
I see those hillbillies for what they are
Proud with their poverty and disadvantage
And inherent ignorance
Because I was one once,
And know what it’s like to have nothing else.
Somehow the world is easily reduced
To these two sides;
Hardship and comfort
And the pride which accompanies each.
(8/9/25)
The hillbilly hoe down is in full swing
We are all trying to be crowned the king
We put up our dukes to everyone we see
Jumping into the fray is my Uncle Lee
I am pummeling my brother and two strangers too
One has a red face, the other one is kind of blue
My brother say “hey! I am your bro, you crazy boy!”
“That’s what makes us rednecks, what brings me joy.”
The hillbilly hoe down is held in the holler west.
I brought my own whiskey, my moonshine is the best.
Auntie tastes my barbeque sauce that burns off her tongue.
This hoedown in Tennessee is all kinds of fun!
hllbilly hoe down
hard piece of straw in each mouth
bibbed overall dance
banjos and fiddles
potluck of fancy desserts
arkansas ham hocks
hound dogs on the porch
homemade corn liquor from gramps
square dancing parents
loud bluegrass music
pink taffy pull for the kids
toothless grandmothers
Time for me to give the best man's toast
It's the moment that I've dreaded most
What can I say Mister
You married your Sister
I've had her and that's nothing to boast
In fact, last time we were together
We did it with whips, chains, and leather
But bondage made her mean
So I broke it off clean
Now little Bro, you can have Heather
Down in Hillbilly Hollow, under the silver moon,
Rustlin' leaves and hootin' owls, playin' a country tune.
Haystacks high, and the creek runs low,
Life rolls by, nice and slow.
Dirt road windin', bend to bend,
Kin and friends 'round every end.
Old guitars strummin', hear the sound,
Laughter echoes, love abounds.
Barefoot dances, by the old barn door,
Stories told, of legends yore.
In Hillbilly Hollow, hearts are full,
Under starlit nights, life's beautiful.
Me thinks Hillbilly Vance is too highfalutin'
A big corporate crack pot? Yeah, yer darn tootin'
Gimme Jed Clampet any day
Jethro, Granny or Ellie May
Not a hack for a huckster who praises Vlad Putin!
Hillbilly Bobby shared his snack with a chickadee
The bird gave out some sounds a toot, a tweet and a twee
His relatives came by and wanted bird seed too.
Bobby called in relatives to see what they could do.
They baked up cornbread and threw it onto the ground.
The smell of ham, beans and onions wafted all around.
They ended up feeding the entire chickadee nation.
Now this is an annual October harvest celebration.
On top of old mango tree
Climbing high, wild and free
High above the mountain top
Wishing signal would not flop
Writing my poetry
On top of old mango tree
While the skies up above
Lauding the courage I have
June 3, 2023
High ho Hill Bill is singing the hillbilly blues
It’s not a bad life, yet, not one that I’d choose
He’s wailing like a cat with a pinched big toe
Singing the blues up and down in summer and snow.
They found me under a spoiled apple tree
I was never a good boy, no one wanted me.
My daddy ran off with the housewife next door.
I looked just like him, so my behind was always sore!
My mom took his discretions out of my little hide.
I was never welcome in the house, or anywhere inside.
My bed was in the barn, I slept with a mouse and a cow.
Being grunted at by a gas-passing horse and a worse passing sow.
It’s not a bad life, yet not one that I’d choose.
This is why I am forever singing the hillbilly blues.
I want to get on tv, or at least the afternoon news.
But no one wants me except for liquor and booze.
Billy played the banjo, sometimes the fiddle, too
While grandpa rattled the spoons and sang
About a sip of “that good ol’ mountain dew.”
Occasionally Mr. Snell came over and brang *
His collection of gourds, they made a harmony
While grandpa rattled the spoons and sang.
The makeshift band welcomed, as a courtesy,
Anyone who had a crude mountain instrument
His collection of gourds, they made a harmony.
Mama clog danced with an Irish jig movement
She, also a talented musician, did purely enjoy
Anyone who had a crude mountain instrument.
I usually sat on the front porch steps with a toy
While our neighbor hillbilly band played a tune
They tried, as best they could, never to annoy.
It was a splendid way for old friends to commune
Billy played the banjo, sometimes the fiddle, too,
While our neighbor hillbilly band played a tune
About a sip of “that good ol’ mountain dew.”
written July 10, 2021
[*brang. Every hillbilly kid knows that the
tenses of "to bring" are "bring, brang, brung."]
We got a bubble machine and rigged it up a bit.
To the cow water trough, it was a really tight fit.
Come on! I urged Bubba, grandma’s nap won’t last.
I knew if she caught us, we’d be whooped hard and fast.
We were giggling so hard, probably due to the beer.
Who brought it over to Grandma’s, it really ain’t clear.
What you mak’n? Asked a young’n, making me mad.
Never mind, I told her. Go away, try to find your dad.
You better not be making no still, came a voice out the window.
It was Grandma, so we all held ourselves real quiet and slow.
We were mak’n a Jacuzzi out of her cow trough with the garden hose.
Whether it came out better than the spaceship, only God knows.
Hillbilly musicians don't play the drums
They use instruments that they can strum
Fiddle or blow
Why do they do this? I don't know
It must make a unique noise
When accompanied by
Fiddle, Banjo, Guitar and boys
Singing as nobody sang
With that country music twang
By their side, a bottle of Whisky and Rye
While watching those Southern Belles pass by
With a Hi-dee-hi and a Do si do
Strum those strings
And away we go
The fiddler, fiddling
Like a man possessed
The girls look stunning
In their country best
With lots of clapping
Foot stomping too
There's no rapping
It's not the thing to do
It's called a Hoedown
Where you'll have a blast
Its world renown
Sure to make you gasp
The atmosphere and music
It will make you dance and sing
You will become hooked
On this country music thing
They brought their music to the hills,
a gritty music
that world brook no softening,
but in time the Appalachian mists
grew softer and the work less dire.
They were not one people,
they were one music,
tunes that recalled Celtic roots
that had broken the will of nations
to ever control them.
When they left those homelands
they did not abandon the high landscapes
but sought the hill country
wherever they travelled.
Now they are assailed
by their own who have forgotten
how to be free.
Music keeps them singing,
the earth is planted
with their unyielding bloodlines.
They will be the last to surrender
to those that see only a fading time,
for they dwell within their own time
and their history grows deeper
in each age of sorrow and joy,
an elegy as old and green
as distant hills everywhere.
Hillbilly magic in the heat of the day
Playing homemade fiddles in the middle of May.
Blowing into Grandpa’s jug with a merry hey.
Knee slapping melody with my cousin Shay.
Adding to Arkansas lazy ambiance in every way,
Black comb with waxed paper kazoos added to the fray.
Consuming Bob’s moonshine in secret shadows of dark gray.
Good ole’ fashioned downhome fun on a June like Saturday.
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