Laughter rings in the hills of Kentucky.

You tore my heart to smithereens
when you burst out of yore jeans . . .
but I love you still;
forever I will.
Scratched my itches too publicly.
Haven’t yore britches stuck in yon crack?
Sweet tart, please come back.
I’ll learn manners, tact.
Yore smiling face--looks like a possum--
makes my inners leap for sorghum . . .
apple of my eye,
my moonbeam pie.
You’ve insects and bugs in yore pants
but, my darlin’, how hard you prance!
Though you smell, stink like a
hog wearing his sty,
I’d spit out my snuff for a kiss.
Ain’t true love always like this?
Yore my sweet fella
though yore teeth ar yella.
Moonshine’s aging in the old tub,
let’s bathe in it . . . rub-a dub, dub.
Folks may be prissy,
we ain’t as fussy.
So you’ve crickets in yore coon cape
and get attention when folks gape.
I’ve dumped other guys . . .
I won’t tell you lies.
Can’t see the sun past the moonshine
but our love is true , genuine.
In my arms swoon
‘neath a hillbilly moon.