Tents

In back of the tobacco plant,
on the road out ta Fort Benning,
yore dusty feet feel the beat
of the holy-rollin' bass drum.
If y'all're luckier 'n' me y'all
're ridin' a cousin's pick-up' n'
kin wait ta heah the trumpets and tubas.

In front of the revival tent,
by the home-made lemonade, gals
wave hymn-sheet fans, eye fancy-dans
who ain't heah ta come ta Jesus,
If they's luckier'n' Satan they'll
sell a snake-oil solution for
any problem, stain or sitch-u-ashun.

Over by the red tithin' booth
where Jesus' biggest helpers stand
arms tight-crossed, with the lost
look of carny-prizefighters. They
moon at the gals cooin' at the dans
waitin' for a phone number
or at least a lift ta the gas station.

One week after the saviours go,
maybe about July 4th, y'all kin
smell the tent rope, hear cally-ope
music and the hoop-la, that oil gits
sold jes' as often and Jesus' biggest
helpers beat hell outta all comers
cravin' a prize of thirty-seven dollars.