Well the long an' the short of it is that I was gatherin' some cordwood an' I come up with my own version o' ol' Bob's poem. Ol' Frosty called his poem Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening . I call my version Stoppin' by a Bushlot on a Snotty Night.
Whose bushlot this is I think I know.
He lives amongst the townfolk though;
He ain't gonna catch me an' that's good,
Cause I'm fillin' my trailer with his cordwood.
Some folks are sayin' this owner's queer,
But that don't mean much t' folks round here;
We don't give two hoots where he plants his cock,
As long as it ain't in my wife or somebody's livestock.
This bushlot's purty an' there's lots o' logs
An' it makes a nice place fer walkin' the dogs;
But a cruiser's slowin' down an' I'm hard t' miss.
I'll tell 'em I was jest havin' a piss.
This bushlot's purty an' the cordwood's dry,
But the cops is comin' so I better fly.
Next time I see the owner, I'll give'm a wink,
But careful-like on accounta what the townfolk think.