"hatfields" poems - Hello Poetry

She was a Hatfield And I a McCoy It was just love beween A girl and a boy Our daddies grandaddies And those from before Might think us irreverant To open that door She lived two towns over It was love at first sight.... We would slip out and meet Every Sat. night The neighbors all thought It just wasn't right But we were in love And it wasn't our fight Only two counties apart She lived in West V My home was Kentucky The suitor was me To us it was foolish The feud was so old Even though it was famous From the tales that were told She lived two towns over It was love at first sight.... We would slip out and meet Every Sat. night The neighbors all thought It just wasn't right But we were in love And it wasn't our fight We'd meet after dark At a barn down the line We were not feuding people For that night she was mine We would run off together After school was complete We'd change both our names We would be real discreet She lived two towns over It was love at first sight.... We would slip out and meet Every Sat. night The neighbors all thought It just wasn't right But we were in love And it wasn't our fight Our folks would reject us And spoil our joy Cause here was a Hatfield With a real McCoy For now, we'll be secret Share our love cross the fence And we'll wait till our kin folk Wake up with some sense

0

Aug 26, 2012

Aug 26, 2012 at 5:15 PM UTC

roger-turner

The Hatfields and McCoys

She was a Hatfield And I a McCoy It was just love beween A girl and a boy Our daddies grandaddies And those from before Might think us irreverant To open that door She lived two towns over It was love at first sight.... We would slip out and meet Every Sat. night The neighbors all thought It just wasn't right But we were in love And it wasn't our fight Only two counties apart She lived in West V My home was Kentucky The suitor was me To us it was foolish The feud was so old Even though it was famous From the tales that were told She lived two towns over It was love at first sight.... We would slip out and meet Every Sat. night The neighbors all thought It just wasn't right But we were in love And it wasn't our fight We'd meet after dark At a barn down the line We were not feuding people For that night she was mine We would run off together After school was complete We'd change both our names We would be real discreet She lived two towns over It was love at first sight.... We would slip out and meet Every Sat. night The neighbors all thought It just wasn't right But we were in love And it wasn't our fight Our folks would reject us And spoil our joy Cause here was a Hatfield With a real McCoy For now, we'll be secret Share our love cross the fence And we'll wait till our kin folk Wake up with some sense

56

ever been a ***** or a ****** i have. and other names mostly given. ever been a scapegoat? i have. been a toy to the hatfields and the mccoys. any ink of brain leakage taken to the sawbone stitches over stitches on my lips sewn by my own hands the sands of time have passed, slow as they can fall -- blood from rips goes on the walls smear memories on the old **** to make a little sense of the prison in which i was living make a little bit of sense of my enemies apparently, i choose to ride the prisms of a prison to the coffin, as i'm better use dead but what kind of exit is a bullet to the head? tell you, it's a mess, what it is

0

Aug 7, 2019

Aug 7, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC

Simillacrum

my existence was offensive from the start

ever been a ***** or a ****** i have. and other names mostly given. ever been a scapegoat? i have. been a toy to the hatfields and the mccoys. any ink of brain leakage taken to the sawbone stitches over stitches on my lips sewn by my own hands the sands of time have passed, slow as they can fall -- blood from rips goes on the walls smear memories on the old **** to make a little sense of the prison in which i was living make a little bit of sense of my enemies apparently, i choose to ride the prisms of a prison to the coffin, as i'm better use dead but what kind of exit is a bullet to the head? tell you, it's a mess, what it is

21

*** for tat only means that another generation seeks vengeance and war Evening the score only means yet another must even the score Just ask the palestinians and the israelis, just ask the tutsis and the hutus Ask the protestants and the catholics, and the crips and the bloods The hatfields and mccoys, too, were all about grudge And what has it gotten us, where does it end? Who is the enemy and who the friend? I ask this because it seems clear to me “Either you’re with us or against us” denies diversity One man’s terrorist is another man’s hero But you **** mine, I **** yours leaves a net gain of zero And what about the children in whose faces war is fought? What parentless future — or present — have they got? And who stands to gain from perpetuating violence? Who profits from the pain ... ... and the deafening silence? Typically a handful of white men do, that’s who It’s that top one percent, not you A few families control the likes of halliburton, bechtel and g.e. It’s their balance sheets that gain from the misery we see Divide and conquer is their modus operandi, their mode of operation today, Keep us fighting amongst ourselves and all blame ... is diverted away.

0

May 26, 2010

May 26, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC

protestry-jones

*** for Tat

*** for tat only means that another generation seeks vengeance and war Evening the score only means yet another must even the score Just ask the palestinians and the israelis, just ask the tutsis and the hutus Ask the protestants and the catholics, and the crips and the bloods The hatfields and mccoys, too, were all about grudge And what has it gotten us, where does it end? Who is the enemy and who the friend? I ask this because it seems clear to me “Either you’re with us or against us” denies diversity One man’s terrorist is another man’s hero But you **** mine, I **** yours leaves a net gain of zero And what about the children in whose faces war is fought? What parentless future — or present — have they got? And who stands to gain from perpetuating violence? Who profits from the pain ... ... and the deafening silence? Typically a handful of white men do, that’s who It’s that top one percent, not you A few families control the likes of halliburton, bechtel and g.e. It’s their balance sheets that gain from the misery we see Divide and conquer is their modus operandi, their mode of operation today, Keep us fighting amongst ourselves and all blame ... is diverted away.

21

Folksy blokes, like ya struttin’ ya thang If you’ve come out of da Grand Ole Opry But, won’t stay around for any old music sang If it’s causing their head, to bob up and down and go all floppy While rugged mountain men riding in some country rodeo Can just step right up, to a Appalachia recording studio Put down several tracks and become a worldwide pop star They sing about hillbilly ways, while cogging or flatfooting from afar Talking ‘bout wild hogs, gators, foxes & how so many more Taste so great, using leftovers as bait & making real men roar Old fables, told through pictures and patterns, upon knitted quilt Even showing the feuding days of the Hatfields versus McCoys From both sides of Tug Fork stream, with many unemployed Although Asa and Devil Anse, said, ‘they hadn’t much guilt’ All because of a judge and 5000 acres of unusable swamp land Once owned, by a close kissin’ cousin named, Perry Cline Who didn’t even get any blood on his hand They started a war, that could’ve been stopped By a bottle or two, of good ole mountain moon-shine Both clans almost wiped out, if last man standing had accidentally dropped.

0

Sep 26, 2019

Sep 26, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC

Fetchitnow

Hatfields V McCoys

Folksy blokes, like ya struttin’ ya thang If you’ve come out of da Grand Ole Opry But, won’t stay around for any old music sang If it’s causing their head, to bob up and down and go all floppy While rugged mountain men riding in some country rodeo Can just step right up, to a Appalachia recording studio Put down several tracks and become a worldwide pop star They sing about hillbilly ways, while cogging or flatfooting from afar Talking ‘bout wild hogs, gators, foxes & how so many more Taste so great, using leftovers as bait & making real men roar Old fables, told through pictures and patterns, upon knitted quilt Even showing the feuding days of the Hatfields versus McCoys From both sides of Tug Fork stream, with many unemployed Although Asa and Devil Anse, said, ‘they hadn’t much guilt’ All because of a judge and 5000 acres of unusable swamp land Once owned, by a close kissin’ cousin named, Perry Cline Who didn’t even get any blood on his hand They started a war, that could’ve been stopped By a bottle or two, of good ole mountain moon-shine Both clans almost wiped out, if last man standing had accidentally dropped.

20

Molasses is The most red The most gold The most vibrant Least cold Fall of my life And it’s a new **** Maybe he wears a trucker hat Or maybe he wears bibs Maybe he’ll be some dark horse New candidate I don’t know yet He could be one of these Over mountain men Filtering through the woods Appearing in the hills Ghosts of Hatfields past Fur on their faces Instead of skin Strong and sturdy Growing up from the ground Like the cane we’re cutting Down And it ain’t about money Out here in God’s country We’re just willing and Able Enjoying the rich soil And machetes Carving calluses While the sugar’s pressing Staining, straining Green and sweet Skimming, boiling, browning Finally draining Into glistening mason jars The day is going dark Sail away ladies Sail away And say darling say Playing banjo In a moonshine-induced Hallucination Till all the bread is gone The molasses gets carted off And now it’s full dark The spooks come out All the wicked witches Spitting hairballs At their victims That thing making noise Moving in the bushes Might be Matt Kinneman Tells me I’m a good woman I’m a human wall And my pigtails make good handholds When someone needs to reach his knife The mountains grow Apart at night And the hollers pull us in Molasses tastes like being Home again

0

Dec 11, 2012

Dec 11, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC

holly-salvatore

Cane Boil

Molasses is The most red The most gold The most vibrant Least cold Fall of my life And it’s a new **** Maybe he wears a trucker hat Or maybe he wears bibs Maybe he’ll be some dark horse New candidate I don’t know yet He could be one of these Over mountain men Filtering through the woods Appearing in the hills Ghosts of Hatfields past Fur on their faces Instead of skin Strong and sturdy Growing up from the ground Like the cane we’re cutting Down And it ain’t about money Out here in God’s country We’re just willing and Able Enjoying the rich soil And machetes Carving calluses While the sugar’s pressing Staining, straining Green and sweet Skimming, boiling, browning Finally draining Into glistening mason jars The day is going dark Sail away ladies Sail away And say darling say Playing banjo In a moonshine-induced Hallucination Till all the bread is gone The molasses gets carted off And now it’s full dark The spooks come out All the wicked witches Spitting hairballs At their victims That thing making noise Moving in the bushes Might be Matt Kinneman Tells me I’m a good woman I’m a human wall And my pigtails make good handholds When someone needs to reach his knife The mountains grow Apart at night And the hollers pull us in Molasses tastes like being Home again

62

lil haiku i whiipped up:) 5-you will need your mittens Mr. Tu Bishva't... 7- "hot! hot! on the dot! Smelly ******* 5-Mr. Pp is off his rocker tonight.....

0

Apr 29, 2015

Apr 29, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC

mrbuddy

hatfields and mccoy

lil haiku i whiipped up:) 5-you will need your mittens Mr. Tu Bishva't... 7- "hot! hot! on the dot! Smelly ******* 5-Mr. Pp is off his rocker tonight.....

5

around the time Hurricane Matthew was tearing through Florida, it was 10:34pm in Divide-- A Coors bottle pressed into your beard, settled on your bottom lip in contemplation a boyish reverie spun between us when you spoke softly relaying the genealogy of the Hatfields & Mccoys, Ole Ran'l, Devil Anse piping in, your accent seeps through real Midwestern like--stops when you're on about prayer trees and La Llorona But I was deeply introspective, heavily burdened by a Randy Travis song how earlier that morning your fingers had found their way around my hips-- mine around your waistband, down your spine a helpless explorer driven across the mainland transversing shoulder blades, fascinated by chains around your neck, nooses, playthings or jewelry how around 3 am your gravely voice sought me out across a sea of torrid thoughts to ask if I was cold yes. probably. and when we start the decline, tripping lazily over moss clumps dead grass, fallen trees, I storm and plow ahead because when in doubt, race yourself. Sheltered by the truck gate, you've come up ahead and stand in front of me, unassuming both hands complacent-- so I ask you to kiss me and there's a fiddle playin' in my ears, a highway of country streamin' through my veins, or, something like that.

0

Nov 20, 2016

Nov 20, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC

broooke

the stragglers.

around the time Hurricane Matthew was tearing through Florida, it was 10:34pm in Divide-- A Coors bottle pressed into your beard, settled on your bottom lip in contemplation a boyish reverie spun between us when you spoke softly relaying the genealogy of the Hatfields & Mccoys, Ole Ran'l, Devil Anse piping in, your accent seeps through real Midwestern like--stops when you're on about prayer trees and La Llorona But I was deeply introspective, heavily burdened by a Randy Travis song how earlier that morning your fingers had found their way around my hips-- mine around your waistband, down your spine a helpless explorer driven across the mainland transversing shoulder blades, fascinated by chains around your neck, nooses, playthings or jewelry how around 3 am your gravely voice sought me out across a sea of torrid thoughts to ask if I was cold yes. probably. and when we start the decline, tripping lazily over moss clumps dead grass, fallen trees, I storm and plow ahead because when in doubt, race yourself. Sheltered by the truck gate, you've come up ahead and stand in front of me, unassuming both hands complacent-- so I ask you to kiss me and there's a fiddle playin' in my ears, a highway of country streamin' through my veins, or, something like that.

35