BALLAD OF THE BACKROAD FARMER

Some fellers love their cigarettes, but me, I’ve never liked one yet.

They burn so hot and smoke so fast, three minutes is all … one will last.

And others love a good cigar, to them it is the best by far, but its aroma some call stink, a “foul weed” is what they think.

And then, of course, there is the pipe, though some of them are over-ripe,

They wheeze and gurgle and the fumes can drive… the folk from out of the room.

Now me, I love my chewing plug, I shove a big chunk in my mug and as the rich, brown juices flow I seem to feel a happy glow.

And when my cud is in my cheek, my troubles all go up the creek. When I’m outside it takes no wit to find a place where I can spit,

And in the summer, for a change, I’ll shoot at flies and get the range and have myself a lot of fun just knocking flies out, one by one. It’s safer too, than cigarettes,

I’ve never set a fire yet; in fact of this there is no doubt, that I could put a fire out!

But in the house, it’s different there for Sarah sure would curl my hair if I should miss or ever fail

To hit my target, that old pail, that’s sitting just ten feet away.

That’s why my aim is good, I’d say. I’ll show you, see, take aim and – SPLAT! – I missed the pail but hit the cat!

Excuse me friend, for I must run, before Sarah finds the gun –

I may just stay outside all night. She loves her cat that once was white! – H.M. Self, Bancroft.