AS THINGS ARE
The old home State is drier now
Than forty-seven clucks
Of forty-seven desert hens
A-chewin’ peanut shucks.
There everybody’s standin’ sad
Beside the Fishhill store,
A-sweatin’ dust an’ spittin’ rust
Because there ain’t no more.
The constable, they write, has went
A week without a pinch.
There ain’t no jobs, so there’s a gent
’At sure has got a cinch.
I ain’t a’gonna beef a bit,
But still, it’s kinda nice,
A-knowin’ where there’s some to git
Without requestin’ twice.