My New Truck

I was haulin' all my garbage to ah'r local dumpin' spot.
Seven cans o' garbage in the back o' my old Dodge.
Somethin' wasn't settin' right and really nagg'd on me,
So I went inside and cracked a beer in front o' my teevee.

This guy inside the teevee tube was talkin' 'bout his store.
Said they sell a hunnerd cars a day or mebbe even more.
Invited me to come on down—said all his cars was clean.
Swore he'd make me such a deal as one I never seen.

First thing they done showed me had a yeller racin' stripe.
They sicc'd me on a bright blue one but it jes' wasn't right.
Out there t'the street was my fav'rite on the lot.
A candy-apple red 'un I just loved right on the spot.

I opened up my checkbook, threw in ever'thing I own.
I cain't believe they trust me with that 35-year loan.
The sticker shock I swaller'd wasn't half as hard to hold
As the shot my honey gimme when I drove this baby home.

My new custom-tailored pickup has a V-8 404,
An eight-disk CD changer and woofers in the doors,
A power-star transmission, chrome mags on every wheel.
Only thirty thousand bucks—I got me quite a deal.

She's quite a sight alright—them headlights sure are sweet,
Runnin' boards and mudflaps, carpet floors and velvet seats.
I keep her shined and spotless, an' she stays in my garage,
'Cause I haul all my garbage t' the dump in my ol' Dodge.

I'm not sure where this idea even came from—I don't consider myself a Foxworthy redneck and I don't like television commercials or new car dealerships. But still the muse was there. The vernacular was an afterthought when I realized: 1) the scansion needed something extra to make it work, and 2) the guy in my head speaking the words walked a different economical line than I. Not sure how I knew this, but that's the way my creativity works.

Copyright © 1998-2005. Michael Quin Heavener. All Rights Reserved.