It's Hot(Carl Brooks) It's Hot
By
Carl Brooks

Way down deep, deep in the South.
Where cicada-bugs rattle and prattle about.
While complainin’ how hot, a hot summer day can really be,
Even up there, high in that ancient ol' oak tree.

The one standin' there,
Reachin' to the gods.
It's been there since Gen'ral Grant
And Mar'se Robert was at odds.

Where everything's moist... and wet...
And slow... and hazy.
Where Spanish moss-hangs down,
All set, low-strung and reeeaal lazy...
From just about... everything.

It's too hot to tend my garden plot,
To hoe taters, or pick greens.
Or want stuff I can't have, or ain't got,
'Cause shorely, I ain't got no money-means.

It's waaaayy too hot to do...anything,
'Ceptin' maybe rock a bit... and dream of stuff.
Sittin' here behind this m'skeeter screen
Suckin' on chewin' snuff.

If it warn't so steamin’ hot,
I'd get up outta this chair, right here.
Ease on over to jist the right shady spot.
And drop me a line off the bayou fishin’ pier.

Then, sip on a tall, icy-cold, frosty beer.
If it warn't so miserable hot.
But I reackon I won't do that...
I reckon not.
It's too blamin' hot!

There ain't no place to be,
Nothin' to do... no one to see.
So, guess I'll stay right here and rock, to and fro
And think about things...I already know.
Which ain't much...jist b'tween you and me.

Wish that ol' fly'd leave me alone.
Critter's tryin' to eat me for sup,
Right down to my scrawny ol' red-bone.
I'll ketch'm in a minute, 'n cut 'im up...
Soon as I find my sharpn’n’ stone.

Better git me some well-earned rest.
Fix a mess of greens with sugar and lard.
Tomorrow's job o' work 'll put me to the test.
It's comin'! Straight-on hard,
And that ain't no jest.

My wore-out old mules, Gee and Haw,
All three of us – fools.
Livin’ on wilted collards
And last year’s straw.
We’re jist the Lord’s used up tools.

Maybe tomorrow 'll be a little bit better.
Might even get me a post-card,
A circ'ler,
Or some kinda letter.

Wouldn't that be grand?
A letter from Mam in her own sweet hand.
Wouldn't that jist beat
the hallelujah band?

Ain't writ my mam in quite a long spell.
Nothin' to talk about - not much to tell.
What's a feller to write about
When he's fit, easy livin'... and well?
Ain't a bucket-full-of-much wrong with me
'Ceptin' this mean ol' hot spell.

Guess I'd best go on out back,
See to the mules and put up the tack.
Misery ain't done yet.
Things I gotta do.
Ain't no use to fret;
No need to stew.

But… Mornin' comes early,
Things to get done,
Maybe tomorrow we can hide from that burly ol'...
Hot Loosiana sun.

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