The Country Hick
By John Herlihy

We may have sawed-off wings and feet of clay,
And we certainly aren’t here forever to stay.
He did not talk on and on about God’s heaven,
Merely to justify the many struggles on earth.
No sir, he didn’t wear his religion on his sleeve,
When he done wrong, he expected no reprieve.
He was an ornery critter, fought like a battalion,
In matters righteous, he had dignity of a stallion.
He wasn’t against the occasional drink of likker,
Warming all his body in the glow of silver shiver.
He loved to blow a tune on his beloved harmonica,
His big hands strummed the banjo for his Angelica.
He just seemed to open the lid of God’s music box,
Take a deep breath, lean over to pull up his socks.
He drew all around him into his circle of warmth,
The energy he gave offered others trusting comfort.
He couldn’t read a menu, but he was nobody’s fool,
When he held babies, they would gurgle and drool.
Old Buster was nothing more than a country hick,
He upheld honor, what others thought nary a lick.