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I liked Conway Twitty for several reasons. For one, we came from the same
hometown in Arkansas. For another, he chose his last name from a town in Texas,
my adopted home state. But what I liked most about him is that he saw his songs
as ways for suitors to express their feelings. If a guy wanted to say something
romantic (or even a tad risqué), but could not quite find the words, all he had
to do was let Conway do the talking—buy her the record or, even better, have
some deejay dedicate it to her.
That’s something else CT and I have in common. I too speak for a group that
has something to say, but has the devil’s own time trying to articulate it. It
is not for the lovers, but the losers that I speak. Conway spoke for the lovers;
the Lorax speaks for the trees; but these, these bellyaching blamers have come
to rely on me as their spokes-moaner.
 You know the ones: they have it all figured out in their heads that their
sorry situation cannot possibly be due to anything that they have done or left
undone. They try to pin their pathetic plight on the politicians, big business,
the fates, the flukes, the flakes, or the phantom. But they can’t quite string
the words together in any coherent fashion. These guys (and gals) stand ready,
willing, and able to throw their hands up in resignation and have another beer.
My mission is to help these people give voice to their frustrations, to help
them find better excuses than, "jest b’cause everthing’s so messed up,
that’s why." So, I have offered my services, free of charge, to write a
country song especially for them. Now, when a fellow is feelin flustrated and
needs to lament his lack of character, all he has to do—if You’ll loan him a
quarter—is press a few buttons on the jukebox. And it comes out somethin like
this here (reach on down to about the key of C sharp, boys):
Honey, have I told you lately
How horribly I’ve been screwed?
Everyone I run into
Is low down, mean, and rude.
I can’t get a break to save
My worthless, rotten life.
That’s how come I lost my job,
My birddog, and my wife.
When I was only five years old,
I fell and skinned my knee.
But the government won’t let me
Draw my disability.
All my luck and bright ideas
Came to a screechin halt;
I’m just amazed how it’s always
Somebody else’s fault.
Whinin ‘till I lose my mind,
Complainin just to keep from cryin,
Draggin my sad behind
Across the credibility line.
Belly full of cheap moonshine,
Misery’s my Valentine.
Honey, that’s the reason I’m
Whinin ‘till I lose my mind.
Everybody else has got a
Big, new house and car;
They prob’ly lied and cheated
To get to where they are.
They’re all out to gitcha,
It’s a gross conspiracy.
If you don’t won’t to miss the boat,
You’d best listen to me.
Everybody hates me;
That’s why I cain’t get ahead.
I’ve been singled out to lose,
They all wish I was dead.
All that I can think about
Is gettin my revenge.
I’ll teach those fools a lesson:
I’ll go on a drunken binge.
Whinin ‘till I lose my mind,
Complain just to keep from cryin,
Draggin my sad behind
Across the credibility line.
I’ll keep drinkin ‘till I’m blind.
Fodder for the daily grind.
How can life be so unkind?
Whinin ‘till I lose my mind.
(Yodel the big finish):
Whi-EE-inin ‘till I loo-OO-ose my mi-Hind.
© 2000- 2006 Tom Hale
Read
more of Tom Hale's Campfire Tales at http://www.mightymuddy.com
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