I sit here at the corner
Watching people spend their lives
waving at them as they pass
kids and husbands with their wives

They call me Mr. Waverly
Though no one knows my name
If I'm not out there waving
Life just wouldn't be the same

I sit and wave at everyone I see
When someone calls out "Waverly"....that's me
I wave at everyone as they pass by
Most likely will until the day I die

If I'm not out there waving
Folks wonder how I am
I'm known for what I do
Not known for who I am

I sit out  on the corner
Waving from beneath my tree
As people pass and yell out
"Hey Waverly....that's me"


I sit and wave at everyone I see
When someone calls out "Waverly"....that's me
I wave at everyone as they pass by
Most likely will until the day I die

Time to meet the family
At least, that's what I heard
But, she asked me when the game was on
So, I didn't catch a word

We'd be heading out a week from now
Back where it all began
To meet the wife's whole family
every woman, every man

When she said she was from the hills
I didn't ask her where
But, once he started on our way
I was always looking out for bear

They lived way up in the wooded parts
Off the road, you couldn't see
I didn't see just where they were
But, I felt them watching me

We pulled on up and there they were
They made the Clampett clan look good
Eighteen folks all standing there
and two were chewing wood

The one's I thought to be her folks
Were her sister and a dog
The one that cozied up to me
Had a leash walking a hog

There was hugging and some kissing
Lots of tangled beards and hair
Then they stood and looked at me
With that mountain kind of stare

you know the one, deliverance like
where you wonder flee or flight
It was just then that I wondered
If I'd make it through the night

Her ma came up and spun me round
slapped my ***, and said "he'll do"
I wasn't sure if that was good
And I would end up in a stew

A bearded one came over,
shook my hand, and said his name was Clem
He said that mama liked me
Now, I was one of them

they was fixing to go hunting
Which was something new to me
The last time I went hunting
I shot a canoe and a tree

They said that they were hunting
The most elusive mountain prey
I was gonna hunt for ginseng
And if we found some it would pay

First, though, time to have some drinks
Eat some greasy, stinky meal
I think it was a possum
But, it might have been an eel

They said we'd get a good night's sleep
And they started howling at the moon
Time to hit the sack they said
Hunting time is coming soon

My Appalachian in-laws
Made my sphincter close up tight
They had 14 teeth between them
And I don't think one of them could write

We hit the trail next morning
It felt like miles up that hill
I thought that I was dieing
And I hadn't left a will

A sound was heard, a gentle coo
And we was running, in our boots
Clem was out in front of us
And he'd discovered ginseng roots

I picked them up, all scraggly
Like a parsnip,  dried and dead
When a holler came from brother Boo
A monster known as Red

His beard was black as coal could be
His eyes looked at each other
They called him Red not for his hair
Just 'cause he liked the color

They filled the bags with what they found
And back down the hill they went
I thought that this was insanely mad
And then Clem got a scent

Someone else was on this hill
Out hunting Appalachian gold
That's not what I would call it
But, I just call things as I'm told

We found the truck and sped away
To get paid for the days find
We had to make sure all were there
And that we left no one behind

The gun shop and the bar and grill
Was where we would get paid
Thirteen hundred bucks a pound
Almost three grand had we made

We went back with the cash in hand
Howling at whatever we saw
I guess that I'm now one of them
An Appalachian outlaw in-law

you have to feed the devil
deep inside your soul
no matter your addiction
no matter how you roll
you have to feed the devil
you have to fill the empty hole
you have to feed the devil
deep inside your soul


cold turkey, gonna **** ya
with pain you've never seen
you're dancing with the devil
you never will get clean
don't try to win this battle
he's the best that's ever been
you've got to feed the devil
you never will get clean

welcome to the nightmare
the darkness, some say hell
have a drink, or needle
you never will get well
once you hit the bottom
you'll know how far you fell
welcome to the nightmare
the darkness, this is hell

you have to feed the devil
deep inside your soul
no matter your addiction
no matter how you roll
you have to feed the devil
you have to fill the empty hole
you have to feed the devil
deep inside your soul

feed the monster, keep him quiet
you won't like him if he's mad
you have to feed the devil
he's really good when things are bad
you have to keep him sleeping
let him lie still in his pad
you have to feed the monster
you won't like him when he's mad

play your cards, and pick your poison
he don't care which one you choose
you're addiction is what fuels him
and either way you lose
it's no longer such a gamble
baby needs some brand new shoes
play your cards and pick your poison
'cause either way you lose
play your cards and pick your poison
'cause either way you lose

Going on a road trip
Something for my soul
It's gonna take a while
But, it's gonna make me whole

I'm going to cross the country
But, I'll start on both the coasts
I've been in too many bottles
Have to exorcise some ghosts

Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where the dream did end
Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where I'll start to mend

Greyhound bus out of the east
From the Maritimes my son
I'll venture through Quebec as well
This is journey number one

I'll stop and meet the people
Get their stories, of the man
I'll find the ones who met him
Try to learn just what I can

Adversity, I've had my share
Always tried self medication
Now, I need to find myself
This will take some dedication

I'll head on through Ontario
On the Trans Canada Highway route
And I'll try lose my demons
Give my devils all the boot

Brick by brick I'll bring down the walls
That over years I've built
Bricks made up of hate and rage
by love, and fear and guilt

From the west, I'll make my way
Do the highway he could not
Through the rocky mountains
Every mile is hard fought

I'll learn about the person
Who he was and who I am
I'll come through the fire stronger
I'll be a much better man

I will bus across the prairies
Through the Manitoba cold
I will focus on my endgame
I'll learn from what I'm told

Two journeys I will travel
Neither one from coast to coast
But, both are to be ended
by that famous mile post

Maybe I can find the answer
Join myself, go through the door
As he joined a nation
So many years before

Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where my journey ends
Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where I'll start to mend

It is with great sadness that I must announce that wit has withered and died. Actually, it probably died years back, but, like a character on a soap opera, it returns in flashbacks on occasion.

The ability to use wit to insult, as Will Rogers, Dorothy Parker, and the great writers of the past is no more. The use of wit to make someone leave feeling good about themselves, while having just been put in their place verbally, is an art.

I told someone the other day that he was a veldt of intellect, he didn’t know what veldt meant, I could see from the complete look of “duh” on his face. He told me *******….and then after I laughed, he said it again.

This is the replacement comeback now….*******. Witty…at the least. Groucho Marx, was great with the witty comeback, Noel Coward was a genius with his ability to use wit to disarm a situation. Now, *******. yep….that’s it.

If, wit has a resurgence and there is a verbal afterlife, let’s hope ******* is left at the door, holding a copy of watchtower.

There's a little graveyard
just outside of town
The grass is overgrown
The trees are dead and brown
For as long as I remember
No one's been up there
And from the look of the dead flora
Nobody really cares

It's about a mile east of here
The fence is almost gone
It's never going to get mistaken
for good old forest lawn
There's not a stone of granite
Most are white, or made of wood
There are spots among the headstones
where others may have stood

I thought it was a potter's field
for those destitute and poor
but, upon close examination
i have discovered so much more
The names go back before the war
The civil one I mean
Back before the Pilgrims came
back to sixteen seventeen

There is no history of them at all
The names aren't from this town
But, there they are on ancient stone
Buried in our ground
It's really something different
The feeling of knowing who they were
Were they here in search of riches
Or chasing down the wealth of fur

I've checked all the stones still standing
Two hundred thirty one in all
that includes the stones rough hewn
left leaning by the wall
The town itself was started
Back in eighteen forty two
So compared to those here lying
The town is fairly new

The graveyard is neglected
There's no body here at rest
from since the town was started
laid in this hallowed nest
There's crosses and carved angels
Whole families as well
With this much soul protection
They will never go to hell

No one knows about them
But in this field the dead still lie
About a mile east of Vickston
With the road, cars passing by
No one will go up there
To tend those who came before
So, they'll sleep soft here forever
And dream of life forever more

i saw a man
shot in a bar
while having a
shot in a bar
would he still be here
if he'd ordered a beer
instead of a shot in a bar?