"Why can't I free your doubtful mind and drink your cold-cold buttermilk"

"Why can't I free your doubtful mind and drink your cold-cold buttermilk," I wrote this at the bowling alley parking lot canoodlin' with my betrothed.
    
We are simple folks livin' on a road less graveled. Near the fridges of Madison County. Our outhouse is a greener shade of kale greens. Granny had recently passed away and we buried her on the floodplain. Every time it rains she rises among the sweet taters.  
 
 It was early morning as the sun came up over the cinder blocks that held up our auction-purchased single-wide trailer. Mama was swayin' in the kitchen like a swayback mule chewin' corn.  Fryin' up fatback, listenin' to George Jones on the radio.    
   
Mama claimed the trailer was possessed by the plastic pink flamingo we used as a weather vane.  She was hearin' noises. It turned out to be pa's chainsaw idlin' in the pines. The flamingo at one time was part of the manger on the lawn of the courthouse at Christmas.  We had to pick buckshot from it.