First, no matter what they tell ya

(And they will)

The whiskey is yr friend.

And when ya come to find that all the people ya know

Ya don’t know none at all

(And ya don’t)

The whiskey’ll be there, like a loyal dog,

A-woofin’ & a-lickin’ & a-waitin’ on yr porch

For ya to get home.

Take ‘er for a walk.

Don’t trust women — it ain’t biologically sound.

You can be the prettiest son-o’-bitchin’ golden-rule-followin’ humdinger in town

(And ya just may be)

But, trust me, young pal, it ain’t enough.

There’s another gold nugget —

Ain’t nothin’ never enough.

That’s why, pal, ya never walk too tall nor

Show nobody nothin’ they wanna see

(Because they don’t).

Don’t speak o’ your short-comings & tragedies —

Don’t nobody wanna hear ‘em.

Don’t comb yr hair

Ain’t nobody gonna notice.

Don’t try ta impress nobody

(Everbody’s in a ditch o’ mirrors)

Keep your opinions in your chest —

Don’t give ‘em out if they ain’t been asked for

(Even then, think thrice).

Don’t hold the door for nobody with two hands.

Don’t bum nobody a smoke

(Lord knows yr gonna need ‘em).

Don’t make yr bed

(It just don’t make no sense).

Keep a healthy body, but not too healthy

(The grave ain’t no softer on muscular physique).

Learn to run a chainsaw.

Learn to drive a Bobcat.

Learn to grow yr own food.

Learn to tie yr bootstrap before ya pull yrself up.

Forget about Columbus.

Forget about Gandhi.

Forget about Caesar.

Forget about Christ.

(Ain’t nothin’ to be learned from them).

Go to school and pass the class

(But don’t put none o’ that bullshit ta mind).

Wake up before 8 a.m.

Do seven pull-ups and 20 push-ups.

Make yrself a pot o’ coffee

(Folger’s).

Drop some whiskey in there.

Make yrself a cowboy skillet

(One potato, two egg, red pepper, orange pepper, yella pepper, jalapeno peeper, tomato and onion).

Don’t smoke grass

(It’s an exposer not a drowner).

Go to work.

Don’t miss a day

(Sick days are for liars).

Go fishin’ — take yr dog.

If ya don’t got a dog, get one.

(Yella lab, name ‘er Lady).

Bring a six pack.

Drink ‘em down.

Drive home

(Y’ll be jus’ fine).

Turn off the radio

(Ain’t nothin’ been worth a damn since ’79).

Make a fire.

Chop some wood.

Write a poem.

(The wood needs somethin’ to make it burn).

 

 

More of Mark Brenden’s writing can be found over at The Sporthole