Note to self: No pigs in the kissing booth next year.

Lemme Tell Ya 'Bout Hick Fun

I did my growing in Oregon
’Midst mountains and trees and grass.

And when I tried to burn the trash

A turkey jumped my ass.

Young life was filled with simple things

A pond, a dog, a mitt,

Cub scouts and bikes and BB guns,

And boots just caked with shit.

I learned to laugh and work and love

And drive and fight and play

And be the guy you wish you were

If you're from New York, or gay.

I left the hills and wandered off

In many other directions.

But some things never seem to change

My thoughts, my views (and my erections).

I saw cows that could not skate,

And bird dogs, tough and able,

A flattened cat, a hatchling goose,

And a hamster on an air hockey table.

We country hicks, we like to fight

And drink and swim and hike

And mess your neighbor's front yard up

On a ten year old dirt bike.

We'd sneak a swim in the city pool

'round about midnight

Then run like Hell for hill and dale

Dodging the cops' search lights.

Teachers and coaches gave us room

To grow and spread our wings.

No one said "Ritalin is key

To keeping a handle on things."

We needed a friend of twenty-one

Or a guy with a beard and mustache

To buy some "Beer Beer" at the Little Store

Because we were always short of cash.

Football, bikes, and muscle cars.

Bows and guns and trucks.

A bull rider's hat, shit on my boots;

A pair of homemade NOONchucks.

Baseball, summer, and ranch-hand jobs

And swinging an oar at the bats

At night, on the Lake, from a stolen canoe

And Dad's "You're SO lazy..." chats.

Sledding in pitch black, cold winter nights,

Going too fast to see through the tears

And meeting old folks who sled at night too

And have for forty-odd years

I've told these things to folks that I've met

I don't guess they thought me reliable.

But if pressured I'd swear, its all true, I was there

And take an oath on the Bible