The Ignorant Hillbilly

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Th' neighbor's penthouse!

The Ignorant Hillbilly

The World's Wackiest Poetry

Page 12

If you ever see a little critter with a bushy tail an' buck teeth, you better salk woftly...caulk stiffly...wick stalkly... don't make no noise!

Squacky an' Me

Mid-October in the mountains is reminiscent of the days of the colonial minutemen. Modern "muskets" appear en masse dangling from the arms of heavily-dressed hillbillies headed for the woods. Squirrel season is in, and "Squacky" is out there somewhere waiting to teach some unskilled stalker the principles of invisibility, or to fill the dinner pot of a seasoned mountain man.

City slickers find it hard to understand the intrigue that squirrel hunting holds for the hill-born hunter. But then, they've never stumbled out of a hickory grove heavy-footed and empty handed and trying hard to think up some excuse for the hungry home folk. No hillbilly would ever sell ol' "Squacky" short, particularly the hillbilly in the following verse.


'Twas a bright October day back in th' hills 
When I went out to look 
Fer a big fat squirrel t' cook 
An' I found a little nook 
An' nestled in t' shake th' mornin' chills. 
 
I laid my trusty shotgun 'cross my knee, 
Then I heard th' sound 
Of nutshells hittin' ground, 
An' I knew I musta found 
A big gray squacky somewhere in th' trees. 
 
I could smell th' dumplin's stewin' in th' pot, 
An' I was sure somewhere 
In that chilly autumn air 
He was smugly sittin' there 
While I hoped he'd show an' give me one good shot. 

So I strained my eyes an' tried t' glimpse th' gray, 
Lookin' far an' wide, 
Leanin' side t' side 
Until at last I spied 
That familiar tail a good gunshot away. 
 
He was sittin' high in th' top of a hick'ry tree, 
An' I'm down on th' ground 
In a bed of autumn brown 
Slippin' one more round 
In th' chamber slow while he was watchin' me. 
 
He didn't seem to care what was goin' on below, 
An' I sure didn't mind 
'Cause everything was fine 
As long as he was lined 
Up in my sights an' movin' nice an' slow.

He'd scoot across a limb an' grab another nut, 
Then he'd calmly sit 
An' I'd hear nutshells split 
With every bite he bit 
An' I gently changed position of the gun-butt. 
 
I set the thing a-shoulder, hammer back, 
But I had t' sit an' wait 
Fer him t' hesitate, 
An' it was gittin' late, 
An' I'd have t' leave b'fore th' night was black. 
 
So I held my gun on th' spot I'd seen 'im last, 
An' then I bent my ear 
While strainin' hard t' hear 
Some little sound t' steer 
My sights to where he'd hidden 'mid th' mast. 

But I discovered he was not a stupid squack. 
Himself he'd ostracized 
From my keen hunter's eyes 
An' then I realized 
I'd been just another nut fer him t' crack. 
 
So as darkness quick pursued th' fleeting sun, 
His precious freedom bought 
I left th' woods with naught 
But a single, fearsome thought... 
I sure am glad he didn't have th' gun!


Nuts!

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