Her-she's the local bumptrix. I suspect her
of vermicular homicide.
At the Sequatchie Scuppernong Jubilee she served up some mystery burgoo, said it was offal
Rumor was it WAS awful, but I steered clear since I'd had my fill of noxious nosh
After some pineapple relish got me puking for
A bilge pump ain't seen nothing as nasty.
Anyway, her husband was the squeamish type.
Reminded me of nothing so much as
Definitely the termagantee,
If you know what I mean.
In their relationship, no question who'd
squash the spiders, peel the sunburns,
dress the fish. AND evidently, bait the hooks.
You see, one sultry September morning my sons
set out to fish at Jackson's pond.
They attest that as they closed in on the
willows and brambles on the bank they heard a
givin' him down the road tirade spewing out
across the water like an illegal sewage pipe.
About what a wimp,
what a shrinking, cold shower little penis he was.
That's when she started shoving earthworms
down his throat like she was
stuffing a Butterball.
After spying this monstrous deed my boys
turned and ran.
Smart boys-I raised 'em good enough.
After that Saturday, her husband was never
seen again, and well, you can see why I was
suspicious of her stew,
especially since she's always been
a dump cake type of person.