Countrified
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When I was 13 years old, I got myself real countrified,
The trait came naturally for me as I was southern fried.
I think that people from the South are much more prone,
To be countrified than those from our northern zones.
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Countrified
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To get countrified, I sat in the shade of a tree at a lake site,
With a fishing pole in my hand waiting for a big fish bite.
I put a weed with a fuzzy end just hanging in my mouth,
And wore a straw hat on my head, like here in the South.
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I was sipping on an ice cold coke from the cooler there,
Watching a bullfrog snatch dragon flys right out of the air,
And gnawing on a crispy chicken leg so southern fried,
Day dreaming there while feeling like I was so countrified.
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A chipmunk just grabbed that old chicken leg bone,
Heading for a small hole in the ground he called home.
I watched his tail flipping as he disappeared in that hole,
And wondered if the little chipmunk God created has a soul..
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A snapping turtle stuck his head up out of the big lake,
Not too far from where I was fishing with my worm as bait.
I tossed a big stone at him trying to scare him on away,
So he wouldn’t grab my worm and interrupt my rest today.
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There was a crawdad pushing mud out of a hole over there,
Working so hard pushing up that tall mud hill in the air.
I hollered “hey craw daddy you’re working way too hard,
Kick back, take it easy, and get yourself countrified old pard.”
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I had a bite on my bait worm and the fish pulled like crazy,
So I had to get right up on my feet and quit being so lazy.
Wow, he was a big one, we were going to eat good that night.
With that big bass filleted and southern fried, tasting great.
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I put him on the stringer, and laid back down on the ground,
And popped a top on another cold Coke and drank it on down.
Sometimes that fishing turned into a little bit of hard labor,
But i quickly got right on back to my countrified behavior.
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My faithful old dog, Tuffy, was laying there beside me all day.
I scratched around on his neck, but he didn’t want to play.
I guess old Tuffy had already been countrified all the way,
He even ignored the chipmunk that carried the bone away.
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I could hear the lonesome call of a single whippoorwill,
In the evening, sitting there with the breeze so very still.
I whistled back to see if he would respond back to my call.
While a peaceful easy feeling grew there inside me so tall.
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It was about to get dark, so we then headed on out,
Feeling countrified from that fishing trip, there is no doubt.
If you get out in this neck of the woods passing through,
I’ll take you out on a lake fishing trip and countrify you too.
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By Bill
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Thanks for reading Countrified,
Bill