I ain't so strong for fancy names For anything -- for men or critters. Now, Jim's a better name than James -- It ain't the label, it's the bitters That matters most of all to me With rheumatism in the knee. I recollect a fellah come And settled over in the holler And give this rural region some New name he thought we ought t' foller. But Pickensville it was, and is, In spite of all this talk of his. And "Springbrook Farm" I think was how He called the place the Sanders sold him, A place you couldn't raise a row, As anybody could have told him. It sounded sort of nice and sweet, But that don't grow no corn or wheat. He had it painted on a sign Upon a prominent location, The stump of what was once a pine, And settled down to slow starvation; Because he had (I mean no harm) No spring, no brook, darn little farm. Instid of helpin' advertise This farm of his, this fancy boostin', I think it made you realize There wasn't any angels roostin' Around the place, or patron saint -- Just made you see just what it ain't. And Pickensville this town'll stay, Because it fits the town precisely. That's good enough for ev'ryday, It suits us people very nicely. It always was and always will Be good enough for Pickensville. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |