Old Slobberin’ Joe
Old Slobberin' Joe was a country hick
He lived in a house made of corn shucks and sticks.
He held a pipe in his toothless grin
And grew straggly whiskers down from his chin.
His eyes were dull and slow in blinkin'
He'd never won any prizes fer thinkin'.
His ears were huge with hairs stickin' out
His nose big and round like an old hog's snout.
Old Joe had a problem, he was bothered with flies
Slobbers on his chin, drew them all night.
So's when he'd awake at the mornin' sun
To get rid of the flies, he'd have to run.
What a pitiful sight Old Joe did make
Whiskers 'n arms flappin', as the flies he did shake.
An' 'bout an hour later he'd return to his shack
To start his day's work, beginnin' with a nap.
Now the ground has thawed, snows melted away
Old Joe's been waitin' long fer this day.
Fer it only comes 'round one time a year
And the thought of it now brings him a tear.
Fer it brings back mem'ries of Mama now gone--
Fer she'd done run off with the widower at dawn.
But his Mama once told him, "My sweet dear son,
If yer wantin' to find a nice young hon,
Remember to always keep yerself clean
Wash yer face ‘n ha'r 'til they gleam."
Old Joe's been a doin' what his mama said
Fifty-five years and he's still not wed.
He's beginnin' to think there's another part
Mama failed to tell 'bout the way to a girl's heart.
Yes, it's that time of year to go into town
Where all the busybodies mill around.
Time to go to the grand hotel
Where bellhops jump at the ring of a bell.
Yeah, it's time to find some runnin' water
And take his yearly bath like he oughta'r.
Cassie Memmer © March 30, 1995
published in Rider’s ‘N Reaper’s March/April 2006 e-zine
Cassie Memmer is a writer from southern Indiana. You may find more of her articles at:
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