We are . . .Real Hillbillies
Hillbilly. That's us
(Some of) hillbilly life explained
"We" are a Proud People
we should be. We helped to make "your" country your home. We built the first roads, dug the first wells and first to eat wild game to stay alive. We are . . .real hillbillies.
we should be a vanished lot by now. But someone up above disagrees. We live our lives by our wits, nerves, "hill" sense and suffer in degrees.
we don't run from fights, demons or work. Up at peeking sun. In bed when our workin', night fishin' and trappin' is done. We are . . .real hillbillies.
got here back in '65. Nobody but my wife, son, and uncle Jebb that walked alive. With eyes clear, and a very rare tear, we set out to settle and make this land our home.
Nobody told us in the old country twas' gwine be easy. We never expected it was. Just sweat, scars, scabs and when one of us left, maybe a few lilies. We are . . .real hillbillies.
deer meat for breakfast. Wild turkey for dinner. No bills, taxes, or government to hinder.
reading by coal oil, learnin' "the way," and granddaddy talkin' to the Good Lord night and day.
seldom we laughed. But love we did. We are a bonded lot for pride runs like blood.
bare feet, bare hands, and a clear will to see. A roof. A bed. And a good family name for me.
We are . . .real hillbillies.
floods come quick and took our lands. Built it back with backs of tan.
Night time music by crickets so sweet. Hound dog sleeping faithful at my feet.
Darkness says a good day's over yonder. No time for dreamin'. No goods to squander.
Workin' in dust too thick to see. We are . . .real hillbillies.
wife give me another son. That makes three, and daughter makes four
my aches are worth my pain and hurt. I live. I work. And soon I will be only dirt.
Happiness comes in short, quick drams. We stop. We sing. Knowin' Jesus is around.
I hear that "Thompson's" raisin' a stand of bees. We are . . .real hillbillies.
we hear "that" soft sinking sound. Crushing our tracks. Stealin' my grounds.
we're innocent. We just lived here. Worked and died. Stood quietly as we felt our freedoms die.
we trusted when we should have questioned, "how long o' progressive man?"
will ye' spare us from ye' deathly hands? What's a few rocks, dandelions or trees?
it's our life you see. We are . . .real hillbillies.
all that stands now is a thought. Of me, "Katherine," and our lot.
how we loved, danced and lost. Only our Father will ever know our cost.
all that remains is my faded name. With nobody righteous to own up the blame.
we're more than rocks, hills, and blue eyes that wonder, but never see . . .
we are . . .real hillbillies.
When "we" hill folk go to town