Life On A New Age Homestead Poem by H.L. Dowless

The barrel is on the porch a purging fat possum.
The flower is in a five gallon bucket nearly forgotten.
The apples are in the root cellar to keep 'em from going rotten.
The farmer is out in the fields just a plottin'.
We are a heading down in the woods this Sunday morning.
The old moll is still a rocking on the front porch
just a scorning!

Coffee is in the pot a steepin',
soon to be poured.
Hell
'round here I'll just tell you we 'uns never get bored,
whether home in the fields,
in woods or in bed;
but such is life in a clapboard shack
on a new age homestead!

The deer in the woods are a getting' bigger.
The catfish in the pond are just a pullin' the jigger!
The traps are a catchin' the most game of all.
Y'all,
this morning' we caught a three hundred pound bear
in our black oak dead-fall!
Later this evening we'll stop by old man Jed Christie's grits mill.
Then we'll walk on down Baker's creek where the branch cabbage grows
to check on our liquor still.
The drip keg thumps to the tune that it will;
hell there's time for a sip cause
now we got time to kill!

On in to town there is a fat lass whom I know well.
She don't talk very much, so she'll never tell,
but she's a pinin' fer a shinin' when I ring her bell;
well boy do I have you a sad spell to tell tale,
cause she's a always moonin' fer a spoonin',
a yodelin' puddin' fer sale!

In church she's says that life is goin' swell,
still a yellin' that she'll stay pure
till the day that she is wed;
but so life goes out in a lean two shack,
on a new age homestead!
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