the me i've always been is here

I'll readily admit it -- I was raised out in the sticks --
that place where the sweet smell of cows and pigs
perfumes the afternoons
and the towns are full of hicks

And I know you didn't like it: my clothes, my jokes, my drawl --
But I had potential to clean up nicely, I was smart
and musical, slovenly cute,
and hey - I was tall

The fact that my guitar knew mostly country and folk
Was fine because rock was not too far
from those blues-roots, and
I made lap-steel a joke

My hair was long, though my dad didn't like that
my favorite jeans and t shirts in style,
and thankfully I soon stopped
wearing that crazy felt cowboy hat

I could be a city slicker, and I changed my rural ways
I could chase the corporate dollar
Postpone my less than ambitious dreams
For several thousand days

But sleeping there beneath for all these grinding years
have been the boots and hat and bandanna
The straw-chewing barefoot afternoons
and simple songs of joy and tears