Po' Boy
Po' Boy is a humorous tale of a boy with a second chance. Will he make the most of it, or will it bring the end to civilization? Click for complete lyrics.
Po' Boy
by TJ Hawk
I still remember the pain. That accident was bad. The crash, the fire . . . I can’t quit thinkin’ about it. Now I’m just a po’ boy.
I was sixteen years old back then. Folks used to call me Billy. Toppin’ those hills in my Mustang was such fun. I tried to keep an eye on the road. My friends were watchin’ that speedometer, laughin’ and slappin’ each other. Now I ain’t got no friends.
When we topped that last hill, my friends shouted so loud. I looked down at the speedometer. Dang, we were goin’ one hundred miles per hour. In a split second, we were flyin’ in the air. That hunk of metal and six boys were actually off the pavement. My friends started yellin’ even louder. Nah, we weren’t scared. We were hollerin’ the victory shout.
The sound of the crash was awful. Next thing I knew, I was moanin; in a hospital bed. Dang, I was hurtin’. I still remember the pain. That was back in 1974. Now I’m just a po’ boy. I ain’t got no friends.
Po' boy,
where you been?
Already
told you, won't tell you again
Po' boy,
never say die
Things
will be all right, by and by
That crash hurt my brain. People make fun of me now. Never do they call me Billy. Most times folks just call me po’ boy. I don’t care. I hate Billy. I feel like killing Billy, but I don’t wanna die.
I get them back for all their insults. I put sugar in their gas tanks. I throw rocks at their homes. I pester their women.
I hate everyone, I reckon. I ain’t got no friends.
I live in the back allies of our little town. I wake up each mornin’ and start drinkin’. I ain’t got no money, so I beg or steal. Mostly steal. Sometimes, when I’m real desperate, I slither into the eatin' place and sip booze off the floor. My favorite is cherry wine. Anytime they spill cherry wine, I drink it, even off their boots.
Po' boy,
dressed in black
Police
at your back
Po' boy,
layin' 'em straight
Pickin'
up the cherries fallin' off the plate
I still remember the pain in my brain. That was long time, back in ‘74.
What’s wrong with me? I used to be good at math. When folks gave me any two numbers, I’d multiply them together in my head. Yep, back then I’d be right every time. But Billy don’t get it right no more.
Kids ask me, “What is three times seven?”
I grunt, “Eleven.”
Those kids laugh at me. Why couldn’t I get it right, just once?
Po' boy,
pickin' up sticks
Build
you a house out of mortar and bricks
Po' boy
'neath the stars that shine
Washin'
them dishes, feedin' them swine
Now I’m gettin’ too old to steal. And folks don’t give me stuff no more, even if I beg real hard.
Well, dang, I had to start workin’. I hate workin’. I hate it real bad. What can I do? I’m just a po’ boy.
I miss feelin’ good. I used to play football. Nobody could catch me. I’d run forever without those boys catchin’ me. I can’t run no more.
Before the crash, I had girlfriends. Now I ain’t got no teeth, except three brown ones. I haven’t kissed a girl since ‘74. I don’t know why. I guess I’ll always be a po’ boy.
---------
“Oh, the pain,” groaned young Billy from his hospital bed.
“Billy, can you hear me?” asked Michael, Billy’s older brother. Then,
turning to their mother and father, Michael exclaimed, “Billy’s awake.”
“Where am I?” asked Billy, blinking his eyes and feeling the bandage on his head.
“You’re at Regional Medical Center, Billy,” informed his father with a brief smile. “You were in an accident.”
“Am I old and stupid?” asked Billy, frowning.
“Well, you’re not old,” cried out Michael, grinning. “But you’ve always been stupid.”
“Don’t say that,” interjected Billy’s mother. “The doctor said there’d be no brain damage.”
“Are you sure?” asked Billy.
“Think fast, Billy. What’s twelve times seventeen?” quizzed Michael, with a pen and pad in his hand to check Billy’s mental mathematics.
Billy responded immediately, “Two hundred and four.”
“Yeah,” affirmed Michael, nodding in approval.
“And three times seven is twenty-one, correct?” inquired Billy, without expecting an answer. “I suppose I was dreaming.”
Billy then had the feeling that something was wrong. What were they hiding?
“Did all my friends die?” asked Billy bluntly.
“No one died. It was a miracle. But . . . ,” choked Billy’s mother, hesitating.
“What?” screamed Billy. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Your friends are alive, Billy,” continued his father, “That’s the most important thing. However, there are some permanent injuries. Todd will have a limp. Gary is blind in one eye. I don’t recall all the details. We’ll tell you more about it later. You need sleep.”
During the following days, Billy learned about his friends. He deeply regretted that foolish afternoon in his Mustang. He was determined to make amends.
Several weeks after the accident, the six Mustang boys met in Billy’s basement. When Billy told them about his dream, Todd declared, smiling, “That po’ boy sounds exactly like Bernard Pinkerton.” The rest of the boys agreed.
“You’re right,” exclaimed Billy with a beam. “Now I know how to make amends. I’m going to be Bernard’s friend.”
Billy kept his promise. He was Bernard’s confidant and mentor. Soon they went to the same university. Moreover, with Billy’s help, the former po’ boy graduated. The folks in town were flabbergasted, particularly Billy’s brother, Michael.
Yet, it happened. Bernard Pinkerton graduated from college and began a career in politics. He became successful, too, with Billy by his side, writing his speeches, teaching him how to dress and how to use proper etiquette. Billy also insisted on dental work. It made Bernard look like a smiling movie star.
Billy did everything possible to ensure Pinkerton's success. He even kept plenty of cherry wine in the refrigerator, so Bernard would not be tempted to leave and sip it off anyone’s boots.
When Bernard ran for senator, the folks in Billy’s hometown should have warned their state about Bernard. However, they were enjoying the publicity too much. Besides, no one thought he could win, but he did.
Now in Washington, Bernard learned to beg and steal on a grander scale. Billy had to work extra hard. His speeches were a work of art. When Bernard had to ad-lib, people thought that he was doing a comedy routine. They appreciated the backwoods humor of their beloved senator.
When Billy's old friends from the accident called, Billy ardently told them, "Anything is possible in this country. Do you see what good can happen, even from such a tragic accident?"
Yet his friends thought Billy should have quit trying to make amends long ago. No Billy felt he needed to be true to his word, as a matter of integrity. Most of all, he was having too much fun during the exciting political ride, with the honorable Pinkerton by his side.
Bernard soon became a national phenomenon. In fact, Bernard Pinkerton recently decided to run for President of the United States of America. Furthermore, he might win, thanks to Billy.
When he heard the news about the candidacy, Michael scolded his brother, “Billy, how could you help that po’ boy become our president?”
“Well, we’ve had worse,” reasoned Billy.
Michael could not argue with that logic. Yet, he hated to imagine a po' boy from his hometown as the leader of the civilized world. The consequence just seemed too severe for that foolish Mustang ride back in ’74.
Po' boy,
where you been?
Already
told you, won't tell you again
Po' boy,
never say die
Things
will be all right, by and by
