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Allow me to draw  
From my southern
Heritage, y'all  
and watch it befall  
Like pretty little  
Ole waterfalls  
Into dark bubbly  
Babbling Brooks where  
We like to throw  
Our fishing hooks  
Against the vines  
Overhanging trees  
Creeping and climbing  
Into our dreams  
Like molasses strings  
From the lip of the jar  
Only inches away  
And yet ever so far  
From breaking the strand  
Tied together tight like  
Momma's apron strings  
Always done up right  
She never puts up a fight  
When daddy comes home  
Stinking drunk and stoned  
From the dive down on  
The county line  
Where he buys that  
Backdoor whiskey  or  
Even some moonshine  
It's a straight shooting  
Copper kettle perfection  
Of southern selection  
Pouring smooth fire  
Into your soul  
And burning hotter  
than the old wood stove  
Back in granny's cabin  
Where papaw used to  
Talk while whittling  
With a long slow  
Southern drawl  
That was just his  
Heritage, y'all