While camping in Virginia
just east of Kentucky north of Tennesee.
I took a walk deep in the wood
just to enjoy the scenery.
I came upon an old farmstead
with an old-timer on a old time rocking chair.
His face was leathered by sun,
wrinkled - worn and greying hair
a jug of moonshine was at his feet
beside him snored a blue tick hound
the dog sniffed and barked at my approach
the old man jerked and looked around
he turned his reumy eyes on me
and smiled at me with a gap-toothed grin
I said "What's that you're drinking, Zeb ?
High test corn or bathtub gin ?"
Boy, you callin me a drunk ?
You think I like to drink ?
Causin if you do, I've news for you,
perhaps you'd best re-think.
I was born my father's son
as my father was before me.
Our family crossed the ocean wide
to a land that then was free.
We cleared the forest, we cultivated the land
we worked hard - you understand ?
We raised generations one by one
from dawn until the setting sun / son.
In God's country we grew corn
fed kin and livestock...
We had a vegetable garden where we grew
cabbage - tators - pole beans - t'maters too.
We canned and stocked our larder,
what was left we gave to friends
or to people that were in need.
We all pulled together - we all looked after our brother.
Where did those days go ?
The corn that grew in fertile soil with God's blessing was full.
More than we could ever give away,
waste not / want not - we took the rest
up in the hill to Pappy's still
We soaked sour mash - we added malt.
We stirred it up and made a beer.
We strained it good - we lit a fire.
We drained the beer into the still...
boiler thumping - copper tube hissing,
draw some off and take a bead.
There was an art to making shine
When it was done and right
you could drink it and it would sit in your mouth
as sweet as branch water.
Swallow and it would gently warm yer innards
until it lit a pleasant fire in the pit of your stomach.
That kinda lickker is as rare as a honest pol-tician
Survival or tradition, we put into the land
what we took out of the land.
The land was in our blood
we would spill our blood over our land.
The flesh, blood and sweat of our fathers enriched it,
the tears of our mothers watered it
and so gave of themselves to future generations.
You think I'm a drunk - think again...
What will you be allowed to give your children ?
The goverment made us stop makin our own whiskey.
They passed a tax law that took the profit away
then with pro-bition, the profit lost was took back again.
When repealed - in bottles bonded - uncle Sam smiled once more
profit given to the rich - welfare given to the poor
So I carry on and I taught my son
to try to work and make his own way.
And I'll stand proud and I'll stand tall
when I stand before God on judgment day.
And if you look at me and all you can see is a hillbilly drunk
I'll have you know, that hit ain't so,
how far now has our country sunk ?
How much lower can it go ?
In his cloudy eyes I saw tears uncried,
shame and sadness washed over me.
He said he took a sip every now and again
to remind him of how sweet life used to be.
I hate to admit, but I turned away
there was nothing for me to say that day,
but I still ponder every now and then
the wise old man and his hillbilly zen.
-.-. .-. . .- - --- .-. -... . .-- .. - .... ..- ... Mitch Fuqua
Moses supposes his toeses are roses,
But Moses supposes erroneously,
For nobody's toeses we knowses are roses,
As Moses supposes his toeses to be!
..........................
roses have been venerated all through the ages
of quotes on their beauty written pages upon pages
whether moonstruck by rapture or falling in stages
roses are metaphors for love often spoken by sages
pink roses stand for new love, elating and inspiring
crimson red roses signify love immortal found
white roses symbolize love dead or expiring
black roses for love buried deep in the ground
Shakespeare penned in his time what i now repeat
a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet
perchance bard was enraptured by passion's white heat
words enduring forever so perfect and complete
roses are quite often the subject matter of song
like roses are red, my love, and violets are blue
making feelings so good can't help but sing right along
words springing to life like a bell ringing so true
to stop and smell the roses everyone should take the time
living life without the scent of them would surely be a crime
they're free for all to enjoy cause it doesn't cost a dime
sweetness of the rose's intoxicating fragrance is sublime
it has been often said every rose has it's sharp thorn
careless love, the lover pricked, see the red blood flow
but if flesh be rended let nary another soul be mourn
all is fair in love and war and so the novice learns to know
though it might certainly be thought that the matter is agreed
a rose garden for a kindred flame is never guaranteed
beaten, broken, scarred but still unwilling to concede
they give their all and die for love, now watch the poor fool bleed
the black death is the subject of "Ring a-ring o' roses"
"a pocketful of posies" for rosy rash and smell of death
"a-tishoo!, a-tishoo !" was the sneezing and covering of noses
"We all fall down." as they drew their final gasping breath
Moses supposes his toeses are roses,
But Moses supposes erroneously,
For nobody's toeses we knowses are roses,
As Moses supposes his toeses to be!
..........................