I've got a problem with my head:
My forehead has low-slope.
Some say it makes me look inbred.
I think it makes me tope.
My knuckles are all scratched and bruised
From dragging on the ground.
By this my wart-hog is amused,
But not my trusty hound.
I shuffle when I walk around;
I stumble and I mope.
I often sleep right on the ground
And rarely wash with soap.
I love to feast on what I kill;
I roast it just a touch.
Of gathering I've had my fill;
I like that not so much.
But what I like the least of all
Are fellows from the East,
Who mock my brain and mock my drawl
And treat me like a beast.
I guess my breath and smell are strong,
And I’m as dumb as mud;
My daddy didn’t pass along
A drop of your blue blood.
But governors of my great state
Don’t run with prostitutes;
Our congressmen all play it straight,
And only pose in suits.
We mate for life around these parts:
One woman and one man.
It don’t take fancy graphs and charts
To see that’s nature’s plan.
So if you want to yuck about,
Then yuck about indeed;
But when your dirty laundry’s out,
Don’t mock my home or breed.