Ol’ Smoky Broken Hearted Psychopathic Blues

we all know that courtin’s a pleasure and partin’s a grief
and a false hearted lover is worse than a thief
and that’s especially true when your lyin’
cheatin’ exgirl’s new husband builds a fancy little cottage
in a clearing at the edge of his parents’ sprawling property
nestled amid plush oak and maple and massive sycamores
and featuring a little pond with ducks and a sturdy old row boat
pulled up on the grassy shore

you know for a fact they’ve made love in that boat
which seems like it would be uncomfortable
but then those weren’t the sounds of discomfort you heard
coming from the middle of that pond
no sir
and all this when their secluded honeymoon palace
is not too far from your own sandy little quarter acre
of stunted pine and scrub oak

and if you leave your trailer
and walk barely two and a half miles
move delicately through that thicket of thorned black berries
repel down what they call Rattle Snake Hill
and wade across Miller’s Creek
you can slip between the strands of that damned barbed wire fence,
peek through the brush
and see them blatantly flaunting their conjugal bliss
as though you never even existed