Living ’neath my expectations
and way the hail beyond my means
I nick Luther’s ancient pickup
and haul ass for Bobby Breen’s

’cause old Bobby’s got twin daughters
that in springtime give me chills
when they sunbathe in the pasture
where Bird Creek runs from the hills.

Chills that turn to fever as the show gets underway,
Red-hots that can corpse a man too dumb to stay away.

Folks down here fear reputations,
say Breen’s killed men in rage,
say that he shot creep bird peepers
with his double-ought ten-gauge…

(I’m gonna make my move today
and to hail with my cold fear
I have to see those honey twins,
four strong legs, long, up to here.)

…say he spied those peepers panting,
hunkered down Bird Creek’s left bank;
gave them both acute lead poisoning,
weighed them down so much they sank.

Folks say the twins cried, “Daddy, shoot!”
sauntered, dressing, making fun
of the creek’s pale rosy bubbles,
twin sets in the setting sun.

Chills that turn to fever as the show gets underway,
Red-hots that can corpse a man too dumb to stay away.

I act a little cool, half wise,
when folks tell me all this stuff,
glad they’re so dumb and forgetful
that I told them most of it

to keep the other guys impressed,
so far from Breen’s domain.
Laugh to see the yokels shudder
when they chant the old refrain:

Chills that turn to fever as the show gets underway,
Red-hots that can corpse a man too dumb to stay away.

Here comes Brenda bouncing blithely;
she’s the blonder of the two.
Where the hail did Ellie Mae go?
Can’t set sail with half a crew.

I step out and wave to Brenda,
shade my eyes against the sun
then spot Ellie in the shadows
as she raises her pa’s gun.

Chills that turn to fever as the show gets underway,
Red-hots that can corpse a man too dumb to stay away.

“We’ens hear you’ve bad mouthed Daddy,”
comes to me in stereo,
“The wrong you’ve done that righteous man
means now you will have to go.”

Brenda hurls a chunk of mine quartz
that I dodge but she just grins.
Ellie Mae sights down both barrels,
fires a round into my shins.

Chills that turn to fever as the show gets underway,
Red-hots that can corpse a man too dumb to stay away.

They drag me down the creek’s left bank.
I see buckshot on the rocks,
shreds of still-new stone-washed fabric
from red Wigwam hunting socks.

Both twins laugh me down like witches,
that’s the last sound my brain gleans
as Breen’s double-ought chops cotton
in my Calvin Klein blue jeans.