He’d sit in a cane rocker on his dirt yard
shirt cuffs flapping yell to mama
girl bring me some tea.
Lucky for him she adored her daddy
otherwise that old goat
would’ve died a lot sooner.
A mining doctor he bled the sick
for money they never had called them
When they couldn’t pay he bartered
for crops coal corn liquor
loved devil’s brew more than himself.
I thought some angry miner might
kill him with a bad batch instead
he died in his sleep at ninety.
I didn’t like him alive don’t care
what happens to him now but in respect
to all the dead I’ll stay my time.
First appeared in _King Log_ and reprinted in _Southern Girl Gone Wrong_