The Ballad of Mescalito and The Hangdog Kid

The Ballad of Mescalito and The Hangdog Kid

I’m so lonesome, I could cry-
but I can’t,
cause my tears ran off
with my wife
right after she baptised
my dog Shep in the bathtub
with a toaster oven.

I tried to drown my sorrows,
but my sorrows have been taking
swimming lessons.
They’re doing back strokes
in the moonshine
while I stare at my granddaddy’s gun.
I’d put it in my mouth, but
I don’t have anymore bullets.
They up and left me to do an
all-nighter in TJ,
and never came back.

My car got stolen by a grizzly bear.
My momma spontaneously combusted at Sunday service.
My brother got abducted by aliens.
My sister married a Chupacabra.
My cousins, all 23 of them, converted to Scientology.
And I got laid off from my job.
They replaced me with a Japanese robotic dog.

I’m so tired of lying around in my own filth,
listening to my blind uncle Cleon yodel from the pantry.
I ought to get up, put on some clothes and leave this
one-mule town but I can’t:
Jesus raptured my blue jeans.

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