To you the distinction might sound a bit silly
But I’m not a redneck, I’m an old hillbilly:
Brought up on the green rolling range of the greater midwest.
On 4H work projects and chores in the morning,
long thunderstorms coming up without a warning;
the FFA and those blue ribbons pinned onto my chest.
Fried chicken and taters, homemade jam and bread;
enough sense to not let it go to my head;
an honest wage for a day’s work – woman, girl, boy or man.
Miles stretched out in corn, soybeans and winter wheat;
long underwear, overalls and bare feet;
for piano and guitar lessons, you pay what you can.
Blue collar hand-me-downs and hands always dirty;
work well past sundown and up at 5:30;
good dogs and good food and good times at the swimming hole.
Guitars tuned right, and strong voices together;
harmony tight, shoes of worn out old leather;
gospel and bluegrass and country and good rock and roll.
To you the distinction might sound a bit silly,
but I’m not a redneck, I’m a damn hillbilly;
not looking to fight, just be happy and do my own thing.
Hills, creekbeds and valleys, fishponds and stone lanes;
your word as your bond and expecting the same;
and sound from the ground at your feet when you start in to sing.
3 MAR 2006
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