The True Southern Belle

I’m a Southern belle, new style, a grafted hybrid,

Strictly homegrown, the very devil to domesticate,

Impossible to hem up, box in or tie down.

I’m stubborn as kudzu, stronger than morning glory vine

And rough as pig iron. I wasn’t born. I was spawned,

Bit off, chewed up and spit out to germinate

Betwixt dying honeysuckle and scrawny scrubpines.

Catamounts raised me. Copperheads and cottonmouths

Taught me how to blend, fading, fit in against any background

And lay low, waiting every danger out; how, when attacked,

To strike first, strike hard and strike last, biting

Back faster than sheet lightning forking down.

 

I’m a Southern Belle old style. Heavy odds don’t faze me.

I fight my own battles. And I win, when winning counts.

I’ve enough tar and turpentine on my heels, enough gumption

To know when to turn tail and run like twenty hells;

When to wheel and snarling, stand pat, sticking fast.

I don’t hold with lost causes, nightriders or wars

But I can Stonewall it with the best. And do. Everyday.

Had ought to, having a smidgen of Jackson gut and grit,

Enough to see me through. I’m a fool, too. Fifth generation.

I don’t traffic with malice and lies. I trust deeds

More than vows. I respect dirt more than air

Because life grows there. I know no matter what hue

The skin, hearts speak the same tongue and all blood

Is red, red as the dark rich clay I walk each day.

I eventually, finally learn

Tough hides and tender hearts will always survive.

 

Dreaming, scheming, I grow, change, expand, plot

And plan my fields. I can break new ground all day long

And commence to raise cane when the sun goes down

Because I’m a Southern belle, true style. My aim is the sky.

I can storm, plunder, swear, fight, shout, holy-roll, shoot straight.

I can smoke, joke, run, race, win, lose, draw, turn on a dime

And meet you coming back for change. Everytime,

Because I’m just what you see — little but loud

And poor but proud to be a Southern belle country style.