Sam still hasn't decided which was worse,
the stove or the mattress.
When he was ready to move it in,
he went scourin' the countryside
for stuff to sit on, eat from, keep things in,
and a place to sleep.
All the farmers for miles around
thought he was a crazy hippie.
Some laughed, others told their kids
to git back inside while they sic'ed the dogs,
or ran him off with the shotgun.
Their wives liked the twinkle in his right eye,
and that wry smile,
they thought his truck fit him as good as his jeans.
Sam says,"I knew what I was doin'."
Before long, Sam had an easy chair
with a hole in one arm,
a great big pot bellied stove,
two kitchen chairs, a folding table
three dressers (one he keeps in the kitchen),
and an old bedframe. A cute little blond
gave him a feather mattress
that leaked from two or three
places in the seams.
Sometimes one of those feathers
will get loose and tickle his neck,
says it reminds him of her hair when she
rested her cheek on his shoulder.
Have you ever tried to haul a thirty pound,
seven foot long, three foot wide,
limp bag of feathers up a tree?
After an hour and seventeen minutes,
Sam couldn't think of anything to laugh about,
an had to go take a bath in the crick.
He was so mad it took him two days
to think of haulin' it up with a rope.
He'd already decided to leave the stove
on the ground and climb down to it
if he needed to get warm
when Joe showed up with a block and tackle,
and helped to rig it up.
Sam's pretty comfortable these days.
By: Vol Lindsey
