Southern Baptist

[couchgrouch]

Southern Baptist'neath a sweet potato moon with a swig of homemade ginup here tonight it's the best way to remember himcos this sandhill was his chapel, that cactus was Dad's crossSundays that's where him and Ma, played hymns on two-handled sawshe belonged to no one church and, the country was his country clubcos labels are barely good for, peelin' off bottles of Budsometimes folks'd ask me, what religion he practicedwell, he was born near Abilene, reborn in a fishing streamso I'd just say Southern Baptistwell, he liked self-reliance, wood stoves, pump wells and oil lampskept a rusty generator, that coughed out a few ampsand since a mean old twister, stole that last mailboxthe postman leaves our junkmail, 'neath a big flat rockthough Dad scrubbed that horsetrough, 'fore he dunked me inthe mornin' he baptized me, I smelled like bootleg ginand the Autumn Mama passed, he buried her by that cactusthen he sang her a hymn, with the warm Texas windcos she died a Southern Baptistwith Mama up in heaven, whiskey ran through his bloodsho' 'nuff he went next, masking tape marked X on his moonshine jugrather than lifting that rock, to find an undertaker's feeI nailed a lid on that trough and, baptized Dad in eternitysometimes folks've asked me, what faith he praticedwell, he lived a righteous life, now he's resting with his wifeso I just say "Southern Baptist"...'neath a sweet potato moon with a swig of homemade gin...(c)2006 Robert George