Well, I’m in the shower soapin’ away, mindin’ my own business and singin’ New York, New York like I do sometimes, and I hear this yelpin’ and howlin’ and carryin’ on outside the bathroom door.
It’s the dog, of course, and by the way he sounds, he just got run over by a truck. That, or he’s puttin’ on his Ethiopian starvin’-orphan-dog act, where he moans and writhes on the floor like he ain’t ate for six months. So out I come, and there he is, sittin’ on the floor with his paws over his ears lookin’ up at me.
“What?” I go.
“It’s your singin’” he barks.
I narrow my eyes.
“What about it?”
“Well you know,” he yips, “Frank Sinatra’s dead now, but I don’t think he’d appreciate what you’re doin’ to his song.”
“Is that so?” Terse, you know, and I’m directin’ a piercin’ glance at him. There ain’t nothin’ sharper than a serpents tooth than an ungrateful dog who takes his room and board for granted in the first place, but then he’s got to critique your singin’ like he’s a guest dog judge on the American Idol deal.
“So you’re President of the Frank Sinatra Fan Club today, Snoopy?”
He hates it when I call him that.
“No,“ he arfs, “but remember that time you were murderin’ My Way in the shower and old lady Armbruster called the Sheriff because she thought we were torturin’ a pot-bellied pig over here?
“She just wanted to get a man in uniform in her house, and you know it.”
“Then why did we get a warnin’ for disturbin’ the peace?” he goes, waggin’ his fool tail.
One can’t let one’s dog get too far above himself, so I lean over real close.
“Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention,” I croon in his ear, and he yelps and slinks out the back door.
It’s not as though he’s got any room to talk, either. His own favorite song is that one where the dog barks Jingle Bells, and he bow-wows right along with the record. Pathetic, if you ask me.
But, about my singin’, I admit he’s got a point. Back in Pineville High Choir, I began to notice how Mrs. Jensen got a pained look on her face whenever I came in and sat down, and that everybody sort of sidled away from me durin’ scale practice.
But that ain’t my fault, it’s our educational system, because when they don’t know where else to put you, they stick you in choir regardless of whether you’re Frank Sinatra or not. And if you don’t open your mouth and sing, you flunk. In my case, if you do sing, you get plenty of elbow room to do it in and a C+ for perfect attendance.
But as a rule I don’t sing in front of anybody anymore. I can take the hint - although some would say I have a distinctive tessitura baritone - but you wouldn’t think one’s own dog would be rude enough to make snide comments about it. Eight hundred dogs in Pineville, and I get the music critic from Rolling Bone.
Anyway, I’m down at the De Drop with Junior the other day and in walks Trina and Karen Sue. They’re totin’ in a big old black box on a two-wheeler. Chloe howdies and tells ‘em to set it up in the corner over there under Bambi.
“What’s goin’ on, Chloe?”
“We’re havin’ a karaoke night tomorrow,” she goes, spritzin’ some Lysol and scrapin’ up a glob of encrusted tobacco drool off the bar.
“You mean where they turn the voice off and people get up and sing to it?” I go, demonstratin’ my knowledge of popular culture.
“Well, duh,” she goes, pretty much tellin’ me what she thinks of my knowledge of popular culture.
“When did you decide to do that?”
“Well, Trina and Karen Sue wanted to do it, and I read in Trends in Better American Beverage Service that it might get me some new customers, and it ain’t like I’m opposed to that.”
Karen Sue walks up and tells me she hopes I’m comin’ to Karaoke Night tomorrow, except there’s just one teeny little problem, she goes.
I raise a quizzical eyebrow.
“There ain’t no Frank Sinatra on the machine.” She looks at me with kind of a pitiful commiseration, like she’s tellin’ me she just backed over my cat in the driveway or somethin’.
I gape, dumbfounded. But then she goes “I talked to Aunt Mary this mornin’.”
Well, that explains it, I guess, but how Aunt Mary knows I sing New York , New York
I’ll bet old lady Armbruster told her. That’s fine, I’ll fix her. One of these mornin’s when she’s havin’ breakfast, I’ll lean out the window and sing Little Green Apples at her, maybe her grits’ll go down the wrong way.
Anyway, next day I’m in the shower again, hummin’ that great old song Norman
Chloe says when word got out that she was fixin’ to have a karaoke night, the phone started ringin’ off the hook and for the first time since the Snavely wedding reception she’s takin’ reservations. The thing is, a lot of people around here don’t exactly patronize the De Drop, because it’s just a ratty lil’ downtown bar like I’ve already told you. It’s not one of your glitzy hot-spots like up in Mapleville.
But, preparin’ for the big night, Chloe’d swept the floor, vacuumed Bambi, dusted Mr. Peanut off, replaced the dud Christmas lights, turned on the waterfall signs to encourage thirst, pasted new date stickers on the Planters Peanuts packages, plugged a Glade Fresh Meadow deal in both bathrooms, and straightened the velvet Elvis that’s been hangin’ askew - if that’s the word I want - ever since August 16, 1977 when Floyd got mad at The King for dyin’ in his bathroom and threw a bottle of Falstaff at him.
We elbow our way on up front and sit down with Trina and Bobby Wayne and Karen Sue and Kenny Bob. Trina’s lookin’ real fine in her little black sparkly dress, and she’s studyin’ the words to Feelings and goin’ “mi mi mi mi mi.” Bobby Wayne, who you might know does the best Elvis in Pine County
Kenny Bob’s combin’ his hair back and sayin’ he’s gonna do somethin’ by his idol Conway Twitty.
Which reminds me, did I ever tell you about the time we got a new preacher in town who was the spittin’ image of Conway Twitty? Yep, he goes out into the neighborhood introducin’ himself, and he knocks on Rhetta Calhoun’s front door. She goes “Oh my goodness, it’s Conway Twitty, right here in Pineville!”
And he goes, “No ma’am, I’m the new preacher here in town, and I just came by to invite you to Sunday service.”
He goes on to the next house where Clarice Beavers answers the door, and she’s all wide-eyed. “Conway
So he goes on to the next house, and Wanda Kay Rushmore answers the door, except she’s just fresh out of the shower and thinkin’ it’s her husband Ricky who’s forgot his keys, she answers the door stark naked.
“Oh my stars! Conway
“Hello, darlin’,” he goes.
Anyway, the De Drop was packed, seemed like half of Pineville was there and some Elm City
Afterwhile Chloe unplugs the jukebox smack in the middle of that one - I don’t remember the name of it - but it’s about this boy who’s havin’ a real hard time with everything, first one thing and then another, you know, and then to top it all off, his mama gets run over by a dang old train. Karen Sue gets up and goes to the karaoke deal and picks up the microphone.
“Welcome to the De Drop, everybody, for Karaoke night! Woo-hoo!”
“Woo-hoo!”
“Now this here’s the signup sheet, and you got to come up here and write your name on it and the song you want to sing, and if we got it we’ll call you up. Everybody got that?
Dang near everybody in the place gets up and stands in line to put their names down. I see Junior and his girlfriend Denise Dickinson, she’s waggin’ a finger in his face and tellin’ him that seein’ him get drunk and makin’ a fool of himself once - for instance two weeks ago at Red Lobster – is plenty enough for her, and he’d better be on his best behavior tonight or she’ll be mad and won’t give him somethin’ he wants later on. I couldn’t make out exactly what she said on account of all the noise.
Aunt Mary, like she does when you take her out somewhere, she’s cranin’ her neck and tellin’ us about everybody in the place.
“That’s Sandra Faye Fishbein over there,” she goes, pointin’ to a cross-eyed skinny redhead Elm Citian with a trace of a bleached goatee. “Her daddy run off with her Philippine maid when she was little, poor thing. Ever since then she’s been workin’ real hard findin’ her a new daddy, and she’s on about number three hundred and forty-seven by now.”
She yanks her neck over yonder under the moose.
“Lookie there, that’s crazy Kyle Hamburger,” indicatin’ a seedy wild-eyed redneck hippie dude with his cap on backward and no sleeves on his tee-shirt. “I guess they let him out for the weekend.”
Like I said, Aunt Mary knows everything about everybody. Includin’, now that I think of it, that I like to sing Frank Sinatra in the shower.
“Aunt Mary,” I go, flashin’ her a penetratin’ glance, “how exactly does Karen Sue know about me singin’ New York , New York
“Boy,” she goes, swishin’ a swallow of Old Granddad and gulpin’ it down the hatch, “Don’t you know everybody calls you the Chairman of Pinecone Street? Har har!” Uproarious, you know.
Well, I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted by that, so I just let it pass, makin’ a mental note to shut the bathroom window from now on.
“Okay everybody shut up now we’re fixin’ to start!” and Karen Sue calls up Jimmy Ray Hogg, Elmer’s boy. You know, they have the dairy farm outside town.
“Jimmy Ray’s gone sing Sweet Home Alabama for y’all!” and she pushes No. 263 on the karaoke deal.
“Woo-hoo!”
Jimmy Ray stamps out his cigarette, sucks in his belly, takes a deep breath, and starts a’wailin’.
Big Wheels keep on turnin’
Carry me home to see my kin
Singing songs about the southland
I miss ole ‘Bamy once again
Everybody whoops and hollers, especially the Elm Citians, who named their elementary school after the Doobie Brothers a few years ago.
Well, I ain’t claimin’ to be a music expert or anything because back in choir, to be honest with you, I was payin’ more attention to Eileen Applebottom’s breath control than I was to my notes and stuff, so I can’t really say I know the finer points of singin’.
But, I do know that there’s a deal they call pitch, which means that if you sing on the right one, you’re doin’ good. But if you don’t, people look funny at you, like they did at me in school when I was doin’ my part in “Lo, How a Rose ere Bloomin’ just before they started scootin’ over toward the door.
What singin’ on pitch means is that if the music notes are goin’ Do, Re, Mi, and Fa, then you’re supposed to singin’ the equivalent – if that’s the word I want - C, D, E and F notes. Somethin’ like that.
So what I’m sayin’ is that Jimmy Ray rips into Sweet Home Alabama
Up in heaven, though, I imagine the boys from Lynard Skynard were lookin’ down, holdin’ their noses.
Jimmy Ray finally gets finished comin’ on home, and everybody claps and woo-hoos just to be polite, because that’s the way we are in Pineville – gracious, you know, even when our ears hurt.
Next up was an Elm Citian, some goofball with a mullet by the name of Brett Tumple or somethin’. Karen Sue studies the list for a minute and pushes No. 263.
Big Wheels keep on turnin’
Carry me home to see my kin
Singing songs about the southland
I miss ole ‘Bamy once again
Yep, Brett’d decided to do Sweet Home Alabama too, and he wasn’t quite as atonal, if that’s the word I’m lookin’ for, as Jimmy was, but that’s about all you can say for him, bein’ gracious and all. He finally gets through it, but I’m startin’ to notice that song sure seems to go on for a real long time, more than strictly necessary. There’s a part at the end where it goes:
Sweet home Alabama
Sweet home Alabama
Sweet home Alabama
Sweet home Alabama
Sweet home Alabama
And it just keeps doin’ that for about ten minutes, over and over before it finally does end mercifully. I’m thinkin’ one or two Sweet Home Alabamas
Anyway then some other people come on up, but to be honest, a lot of what they were singin’ I don’t know, because I ain’t too up on my nineteen-eighties Led Zeppelins and Pink Floyds and what not. Plus, I had Aunt Mary yakkin’ at me in one ear and I’m tryin’ to get the relentless reverberatin’ echo of Sweet Home Alabama
Well, somebody finally finishes Dark Side of Lagoon or whatever it was – the guy was slurrin’ his words - and Karen Sue gets up and goes “OK where’s Junior, if he ain’t he passed out yet? Junior!”
So Junior lumbers on up, tossin’ down his double Dr. Pepper Jack.
Karen Sue looks at the list and punches No. 263.
Big wheels keep on turnin’
Carry me home to see my kin
Singin’ songs about the southland
I miss ole ‘Bamy once again
Well, I don’t know about you, but me, hearin’ that song once does me just fine for a couple of months or so. Hearin’ it twice, particularly at high volume, it starts to get a lil’ distractin’. Hearin’ it three times in the space of an hour, well it commences chewin’ on your nerves a good deal, and you’re beginnin’ to understand what Apuleius - I been dippin’ into Roman philosophy lately – meant when he was ponderin’ on familiarity breedin’ contempt.
But, nobody wants to hurt Junior’s feelings because you don’t want to wake up in the morning with your bird bath stole out of your yard. So when it finally peters out everybody graciously ya-hoos and slaps him on the back but out hearts ain’t really in it. What we’re really wantin’ is another beverage or two and we’re all knockin’ on our heads and pokin’ in our ears tryin’ to exorcise the Sweet Home Alabama out of ‘em.
Glendene Suggs and her daughter Donna Sue sashay on up next. They’re sort of the Pine County
Trina punches No. 142.
Well…..Well…
Sugar in the mornin’ sugar in the evenin’
Sugar at suppertime
Be my little sugar
And love me all the time
Ain’t that a great old song? They were on the pitch and pretty good too, particularly when you factor in that two good-lookin’ bleach-blonde hussies with low-cut ample bosoms are always gonna get a lot of applause from a bunch of boys who’ve been drinkin’ whiskey for three hours. So the crowd was real appreciative, except, that is, for all the women in the place who just sat there and sniffed at ‘em.
Well, then it was Bobby Wayne’s turn, which everybody was lookin’ forward to, because he’s got not only the voice but the sneer too. He’d decided on Early King too, not Flabby Vegas King:
Hey bay-bah!
I ain’t a-happy with yew
Nononononononono bay-bah!
I ain’t a-happy wit chew.
Just a bigga bigga bigga hunga love
Will dew!
Thass raht!
Dang good! The girls were swoonin’ and sighin’ at karaoke Elvis, and Bobby Wayne’s sneerin’ and wigglin’ and thankin’ everybody very much while tryin’ not to karate-kick anybody’s drink over. Donna Sue threw her panties at him, which luckily Trina didn’t see or there would have been trouble right then and there. But he quick scooped ‘em up and put ‘em in his pocket, and I hope the boy’s got the sense to get rid of ‘em before he tosses his pants in the laundry basket when he gets home.
Karen Sue gets back on the microphone again, and calls up another Elm Citian, somebody named Harmon or Herman or somethin’. I didn’t catch his name real good due to the ambient – if that’s the word I’m lookin’ for - noise. Plus, Aunt Mary’s jabberin’ in my ear.
“The po-lice stopped that boy for a broken tail light a couple weeks ago, and he was so happy they let him off with just a warnin’ he offered ‘em one of his marijuana reefers in gratitude.”
Karen Sue pushes the button.
Big wheels keep on turnin’
Carry me home to see my kin…
Well.
This is startin’ to be an Alabamian nightmare, and to be honest with you, everybody’s gettin’ a lil’ peeved. We’ve begun to notice that that the three chords that make up the song start to jar on your brain after a while, bein’ somewhat mindlessly repetitive, I guess is how you’d describe it. Waterboardin’ with guitars, is what it amounts to.
So everybody’s goin’ “Good God, not again!” and rollin’ their eyes and exchangin’ disgustin’ looks back and forth. They get up, clutchin’ their temples and scrapin’ their chairs in a marked manner, and go to the bar or the bathroom or turnin’ around to chat with their neighbor. So the bottom line is Harmon or Herman didn’t get all that gracious of a reception, to be frank with you.
But after that, Trina got up and did Feelings, and you know there ain’t nothin’ like that song in the proper hands. Why, she emoted it so good there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. About two minutes into it, everybody was thinkin’ about callin’ up all their old paramours or whatever they’re called and tellin’ ‘em they missed ‘em – she was that good. Plus, she’d pre-stuck a lil’ trick slice of onion in her hankie, and she starts weepin’ toward the end in between all the wo wo wo wo wo wo’s and stuff.
“Woo-hoo!” The crowd was eatin’ it up
I momentarily felt like callin’ up Eileen Applebottom, but Eileen ran off ten years ago with a John Deere salesman from Des Moines
Well, Trina gets a standing ovulation and Karen Sue announces they’re gonna take a quick break before they get to the rest of the contestants, so everybody yee-haws and all the girls line up at the bathroom jabberin’ and checkin’ their eye makeup and all the boys go some more beer and a round of shots. The goal at intermission is to come back to the table with a full beer and an empty bladder, and that’s what everybody’s focusin’ on.
Anyway, afterwhile Karen Sue gets up again.
“All right now, let’s welcome, let’s see here, I can’t read his name, but it’s Billy Bob somethin’.” Half the Elm Citians stand up.
“Wait a minute, I got it, it’s Billy Bob Baggerly!”
The other non-Baggerly Billy Bobs sit back down, and here comes shufflin’ up a slimeballish lookin’ dude who looks like he just sold your third-grader a nickel bag of heroin for ten dollars. Aunt Mary informs us, although I’m wonderin’ how she found out, that he’s got a tattoo of an elephant head on his belly. Think about it, she goes.
Trina punches the button.
Big wheels keep on turnin’
Carry me home to see my kin…
Have you ever heard about when the po-lice SWAT teams got a hostage situation on their hands and the guy won’t come out of his house, so they set up loudspeakers in his front yard and turn up the volume real loud and play music he don’t like all day?
This finally gets on his nerves - which are frazzled to begin with - and so he puts his shotgun down and unties his ex-wife and comes out with his hands up, beggin’ for mercy. I know this must be effective, because if I was holdin’ somebody hostage, all they’d have to do is play Carpenters records at me for a half-hour before I’d crack and beg ‘em to take me to away.
By this time the crowd’s lookin’ desperately every which way and seein’ if we can escape before we’re taken to Tin Ear City , Alabama Sweet Home Alabama
Now as you know, Pinevillians are a mostly peaceful group of people. Outside of the occasional altercation over a woman at the bowling alley, we pretty much stay out of trouble and live and let live. But we got our limits.
When Billy Bob started in on Sweet Home Alabama, well, it was sort of like you get when everything’s been gettin’ on your nerves all week, and you have a few drinks, you know, and you got all these grievances and annoyances and stuff naggin’ at you, and they’re buildin’ and percolatin’ up inside you, and you’re gettin’ tenser and tenser and can’t hold it in no longer and you finally reach your boilin’ point and you snap like a cheap pencil.
A sudden hush had fallen over the De Drop. Ominous, you know.
It all started with a little hecklin’ and booin’, and then some jeerin’, and then somebody made a personal remark about Billy Bob’s mama – specifically, her hygiene - and then somebody slung a package of Planters Peanuts up which hits him square on the nose, just as he was fixin’ to tell the Lord – as if He, the Lord, didn’t know by now - how good it’d be to get back to Alabama.
You know how when there’s a football game goin’ on, one side’s fans sit on one side of the field and the other team’s fans sit on the other side? Then when one team makes a dirty play – let’s say stompin’ on an injured tight end - the fans all gang up on each other and start raggin’ on ‘em and then the other side starts raggin’ on them, and before you know it everybody’s callin’ each other names back and forth and threatenin’ to meet up out in the parking lot?
So we got our Christian law-abidin’ citizens of Pineville one the one side, doin’ nothin’ more than exercisin’ their free rights of speech as guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution, and all the snockered hooligans and drunk thugs like crazy Kyle Hamburger from Elm City on the other side, lookin’ sullen and spoilin’ for a fight.
It reminded me of those old shows on TV where Black Bart and Smokey and old One-Eyed Rusty are sittin’ at the table playin’ poker, and Black Bart looks up at One-Eyed Rusty and says “I think they’s a cheatin’ skunk sittin’ at this table and I believe he’s got an ace of spades tucked up in his sleeve right now!”
“Just who are you callin’ a cheatin’ skunk?”
“You know who I’m callin’ a cheatin’ skunk.”
“I hope it ain’t me you’re callin’ me a cheatin’ skunk, on account of I killed a man in Reno
And the next thing you know, everybody in the whole place is up and sluggin’ each other and tossin’ tables and chairs all around, the bartender’s duckin’ behind the bar, gunshots are shatterin’ the whiskey bottles, and the piano player’s playin’ Camptown Races til’ he gets shot. This goes on until Marshall Dillon or somebody comes in and makes ‘em all stop.
Well, it wasn’t quite that bad, but close. The Elm Citians (you could call ‘em the pro-Billy Bob Baggerly faction) are one side of the place, and the Pinevillians (the anti-Baggerlyists) are on the other, and everybody’s cussin’ and hollerin’ and callin’ each other names and wavin’ cue sticks and brandishin’ beer bottles at one another.
The fact is, all of ‘em’, Pinevillians and Elm Citians alike, had reached their personal snappin’ points due to the relentless emblazonin’ of Sweet Home Alabama on their already soaked cerebellums, and Billy Bob Baggerly was only a pawn in their game, a delicato bagattella, as Apuleius would say.
Well, like they say in books – so I might as well use it myself – a melee ensued, and it was spectacular.
I guess Chloe rang up Sheriff Badger, because afterwhile in he strides, right on up to the bar to ascertain the facts, evaluate the situation, and get a beer.
“Sheriff, get in there and stop those boys,” Chloe pleads at him, eyein’ the ongoin’ pulverization of probl’y near fifty, sixty dollars worth of good tables and chairs, plus lamentin’ the broken bottles of beer on the floor she ain’t gonna get her deposit back on now. Plus, somebody’s gonna have to clean up all the blood.
But Sheriff Badger, who’s been readin’ Ghandi lately, addresses Chloe in a quiet tone and tells her that victory attained by violence is tantamount to a defeat, for it is momentary.
“What? You mean you ain’t gonna stop it?” Chloe yells, about to reach the snappin’ point herself.
“But,” the Sheriff goes, “I do see some batteries and some wanton destruction of property goin’ on here,” and he whips out his ticket book, takes a sip of his beer, and licks his pencil.
Up in heaven, Matt and Miss Kitty were gazin’ down, and Matt’s shakin’ his head and wonderin’ what law enforcement’s come to these days. He’d be in there crackin’ heads, not writin’ tickets, is what he’s sayin’, and she’s sayin’ that that spectacle certainly wouldn’t be happening in her saloon.
About this time who should saunter in but the intrepid barrister of Pine Street noon ? And Hiram goes, why you betcha we can, and hands her a card.
Then he goes up to Chloe and advises her that an action could possibly lie against the Skynard estate and he’ll look into it for her. Then he trots on out, lookin’ for a careless pedestrian and a drunk driver to come along. Or, for that matter, a drunk pedestrian and a careless driver, it don’t matter to him.
Well, the meatwagon finally shows up and the paramedic interns scrape the worst ones up off the floor and haul ‘em off, so ‘bout an hour later, the De Drop was empty, except for me, Aunt Mary, Chloe, and a whole lot of broken chairs and tables. Plus Bambi – fortunately unscathed in the recent fracas - and velvet Elvis up on the wall, who’s re-askew, too, I’m noticin’. Somebody must’ve shook him up! Ha ha!
We’re sittin’ there commiseratin’ with Chloe, and Aunt Mary says she’s sorry Karaoke night turned out so bad and she wished she knew of a way to cheer her up. Me too. I mean, everybody likes Chloe.
And then, I get an idea, an inspiration, one of them feel-good, random acts of kindness deals I get every so often. It’s just the way I am.
And it’s percolatin’ up in me, and I’m surgin’ up with such a overwhelmin’ samaritanism I just can’t help myself.
I go over to the Karaoke machine, look at the list, and punch No. 379.
Joey asked me for a date
He wanted to take
Me out to skate
But I told Joey he would have to make
‘Rangements with Norman
Oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo
Norman, Norman
Well, I look over at Aunt Mary and Chloe Mae, and I can see they’ve got tears of joy in their eyes.
In the far distance, I believe I hear a dog howlin’, but that may have been just the ambulance sirens whiskin’ all the boys over to County Hospital to get sewed up and sent back home – hopefully, to Alabama.
Well, afterwhile it’s finally time to go – they didn’t ask me to do another song - and I drop Aunt Mary off and go home. I come in and see that the dang dog’s fallen asleep on the couch watchin’ TV again. I’ve told him a million times not to do that, but he don’t pay the electric bill so he don’t care. And I know, you don’t have to tell me, I never should have taught him how to work the remote in the first place.
So I go to switch off Lawrence Welk – PBS shows him every night at midnight , I guess for dogs and insomniac seniors – and Bobby’s singin’ When You Were Sweet Sixteen to Cissy, who’s delighted about it. Since it’s pretty good, I sit down for a minute, reflectin’ that they sure don’t write songs like that anymore.
Then Lawrence
“Tanka you boyce. And now laydiss and ah gents ah, for hour next number ah, da boys in de band vill all gather togedder under da Dixie moon for da beloved old ah standard ah, Stars A’Fell on Alabama. Hit it, boyce! A-vun! A-two!”
Ain’t that somethin’?
But I turn it off and go to bed, I ain’t in the mood for any more Alabama
Well, next mornin’ I’m in the shower again, soapin’ up and mindin’ my own business, and I look over see old lady Armbruster sittin’ down at the table with a nice steamin’ bowl of grits.
God didn’t make little green apples
And it’s don’t rain in Indianapolis
In the summertime…
I hear a choke and a gag. It was another beautiful day in Pineville.
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