FAIRFIELD
O Lord its hard to be humble, when you’re doin’ living histroy.
I caint wait to go into ta WalMart; the greeters they all follow me;
My hawk an my knife are ma best friends, an tha smokepole I won from Finley;
November in Natchez is tha best time ta be on the hill avec mes amis.
The hill is covered in canvas. Camp fires are all that you see.
Sparks from tha fire makin’ stars in that sky, ma bedroll is singin ta me.
Griz makin hats on the top of tha hill, but he won’t make ma hat fer me;
Drinkin’ beer everyday from breakfast ta popcorn an lyin ta all that he sees.
Now Matt an Toni are comin’; an those boys from ole Tennessee,
Ken an Flo bringing red deer, an Roger bitchin’ at me.
The Laird an his Lady will be here, with more paposses then you can believe,
We’ll all gather round an wait till we found what we won at the rendezvous feed.
There’s Hatchie, White Water an Natchez (Free Trappers) an there’s West Florida too;
Georgia, Alabama, Arkansas, Louisiana, Tennessee and Mississip too;
We’ve come from all over the Southland, to gather an bullsit an ‘vous;
Ta shoot an ta throw, to trade and to crow, an ta visit with old friends an new.
Tha food on tha fire irons is cookin’; tha ladies are plannin’ menus;
Tha skillet toss can be consummin’, make sure they’re not tossin at you;
Tha coffee pot’s three times a boilin’, tha rice pot is really too full;
Eat red deer, drink wine, an pass a good time, an welcome ta our rendezvous.