It’s another present from my three-months-ago birthday! I know how to extend a happy celebration.
Though I make jokes about The Store of My People, I can’t make jokes about the Songs of My People. First, rednecks are not a strictly Southern phenomenon, and second, my people would be rotating in their graves to be called rednecks. Because they weren’t, not even Aunt Jo who scandalized the family by walking downtown barefooted. (I wish I’d known her.)
Rednecks or not, you’ve no doubt known some good ol’ boys, and this poem is in honor of them.