Long Hillbilly Poems
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A tall and short-tempered fat man
was a boss I once had named Dan.
Both his kids and his wife
worked there too. Oh, what strife!
They fought like a hillbilly clan.
Dandee Donuts was Dan's small café.
I served donuts and meals for small pay,
wore a stupid hair net
and what small tips I'd get
growing fat on free donuts each day!
A “yeller” was Dan; a disgrace!
He’d scream and get red in the face.
If his business slowed down,
he’d say, “Don’t stand around.
Take a rag and wipe down the whole place!”
In spite of Dan’s awful ways, he
said he’d sure like to sponsor me
as Miss Muscatine.
I said, “What do you mean?
Your food’s made me fat. Can’t you see?”
(I chose the second one here for the contest.
Did I make the right choice?)
Night falls upon the
wooded lake shore,
I hear Minerva’s child calling;
echoes through the trees
tell me that the
nightlife is awake.
Through my tent flap,
the glimmering dance
of fireflies,
fills the night wood.
Blue whispering waters
are singing to the moon;
I shiver from the frosty
tweak upon my skin;
gazing up at the starlight
that filters through
the junipers and evergreens.
I look over the ensure that the
fire is completely out,
fresh trout is always a delight
and my stomach is happy tonight.
I snuggle down into my sleeping bag,
my dog, Hillbilly-Blue, at my side;
there’s nothing quite as refreshing
and sweet as a Springtime camping trip.
The land shapes people and people shape lands
Tug River tells tales about feudist stands
'Tween Kentuck and Virginny the river runs
Where the rival families took up their guns
Hatfields 'n McCoys roamed "Murder Land"
Cried 'n died by each other's hand
Details were as much fancy as they were fact
As was this revengeful ongoing hillbilly pact
Newspapers spun this yarn of "Outlaw Class"
Took over a hundred years for this plague to pass
"Devil Anse" 'n "Randall" were the family foes
Long-living cheek and jowl as legend goes
Cost many a life of wife, son and daughter
Through decades of feuding, senseless slaughter
Some say that they were driven out by rail
Others knew enmity should surely prevail
Eastern investors were clearly after coal
In the end, as always, control was the goal
By the start of the twentieth century
Appalachians had lost their dignity
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
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.
People laugh and make fun of me because I wear a coonskin cap.
But they'll stop laughing because I'm through taking their crap.
People say that my cap makes me look silly.
They say that it makes me look like a hillbilly.
This morning a city slicker called me a hick and he called my hound dog a mutt.
He was laughing very hard but he stopped when I put some buckshot in his butt.
He started running after I shot both of his cheeks.
He won't be able to sit down for about twelve weeks.
If you see me face to face, you may point, laugh and make fun.
But unless you want to visit a proctologist, you'd better remember that I own this shotgun.
(This is a fictional poem.)
my laugh raises hair on people’s necks
it is not petite, polite, refined, or subtle.
it is a throwback to your hillbilly ancestral
caveman’s outrageously loud and ugly laugh.
when it happens, it is as if the bowels of my
inner crazy is released after 4,000 years in
a dutch oven.
I forgot how loud it was when I picked up three
boys for a little “hey, let’s learn this board game”
session in the hallway where teachers’ classes are
trying to work.
One of the teachers said, “Mrs. K, the kids wondered
where all that laughing was coming from, but I knew.”
I started to apologize, and she said, “I love hearing it.
I loved it; I truly did. Do not apologize!”
I heard later that a rude teacher, who is always dour
wanted me to apologize. I had already tried, right?
While Ma was away, Pa lost Tweety
while pet-sittin’ for his friend Petey.
Then at dinnertime, Ma
said, “I’m so sorry, Pa,
but this bird I found ain’t very meaty!”
Another time, it was a frickin’
frog he lost. While pa was lickin’
his chops over dinner,
Ma beamed, “What a winner!
That frog I found tastes just like chickin.”
Another time “Hillbilly Jake”
Asked Pa to please watch his pet snake.
Ma was out of the loop;
saw that snake and made soup.
It was more than her husband could take. . .
Pa hollered out, “What’s wrong with you?
Every pet I sit ends up as stew!”
“Keep your eye on them critters,
or they’ll end up as fritters.
I’m not here,” Ma said, “runnin’ no zoo.”
Mama and Granny
Herded children through the kitchen
Out the screen door, to the yard
Where we wouldn’t be underfoot
Cousins all brown from summer
Sun baking soft skin and erasing
The loneliness of winter from
Hillbilly faces – cotton topped
Tresses white since birth, curled
Mama and Granny
Yelling loudly from the kitchen
“it’s time to eat – come get it”
Little bellies churned eagerly
Fried chicken – a leg I chose
Mashed taters and gravy
Biscuits from soft, white dough
Baked in a wood cookstove
Mama and Granny
Piled plates full of food
For hungry eyes who dove in
Before grace could be voiced
After pie and cake and everything
We could partake of – Sunday dinner
Washed down with sweet tea
And a bottle of love, homegrown
Happy and hopeful - we had no fears
Mama and Granny
Murmured quietly, taking turns
Rubbing plates and pots and pans
With the Joy that was Granny’s detergent
After dinner, we played – screaming
With pleasure that comes from
Sharing hearts and lives
With the ones you call family
The gifts from God’s loving nature
In a window down on Main St.
Sits an old pawn shop guitar
Its strings are like a slinky
And its finish has been marred
But when a dreamer has a vision
They keep shooting for the stars
It's not about the glamour
It's more about the heart
If that old pawn shop guitar could talk
Oh the stories it could tell
Its raspy voice from the smoke
Would prove it knows the bar scene well
It's rough around the edges
Yet it strums every chord in tune
It could reflect upon the saddest song
It helped write in some bedroom
I walked in through the front door
And it's like the man could tell
He approached me with a smiling face
Said here's the story that I tell
I've seen you for the past few weeks
Sneaking by to take a look
That guitar right there could write a page
It could even write a book
Our late nights were never ending
She knew Johnny, Hank and Merle
Even sat in with the possum
On his tour around the world
She's played all kinds of music
From rock and roll to hillbilly
She even tried her hand in a bluegrass band
But heartache's still her specialty
If this old pawn shop guitar could talk
Oh the stories she could tell
Her raspy voice from the smoke
Would prove she knows the bar scene well
She's rough around the edges
Yet she strums every chord in tune
She can reflect upon the saddest song
She helped write in our bedroom
I know all this cause she was mine
From way back in the day
But I hung her up the day I got
The note that she went away
She helped me through my darkest hour
I'd rather see that she lives on
Than look out on these lonely streets
And think she missed her first hit song
Son promise me that you'll go far
With this old pawn shop guitar