(found in the Appalachian mountains with a rowdy bunch of tough looking turkeys, making moonshine)
my bones ache, I say my bones ache youngstah!
Yas, that’s me on the big ole screen, just being
m’self all on my ownsome. That’s the way I got the gig,
being m’self. Mistuh Jones discupboard me
in a fast fry chiggun joint, of all places!
He said, “how’d you like ta being famous,
get out of here before they add you to the menu?”
I said “I believe I’d enjoy that quite a bit, suh!”
He hired me on the spot. Every film we did
all he ever told me was act natchural.

But now chile, I ache, in every inch,
of the lan’scape I possess and the only R’mD’y,
R’m’Mdy I say, is found in this here jug! Now listen to me
listen to me when I speak to you! I’ve had your high class
Bowjoolay wines, Peanut Now Are, vain-tige, I say
vain-tige Cham-pain and none holds a squib to a fart
compared to this here homegrown mend-sin. That’s all I care
about now — curing all that ails me with this here liquid suh-gerry.
Now, how, how the heck, how the heck I say, did you find me
anyways? You sure you’re not a Fed? I’d have to have you
erased from the scenery if that were the case.

All right, all right, seddle down, no offense meant, none taken.
Film business done, a rooster returns to what he knows.
He returns to the place of his clutch, but there was no room
in the inn suh, in the inn, if you catch my drift,
so I hightailed it for the mountins, where the air is clear
and the people manyfast, manyfast I say, a healthy
a-preach-hiation for the art of pure pain relief — what else
would you like to know? Oh I know, sa-lay-chus godsup!

Well, Miss Prissy put out like no one ‘s bizniss —
another case of typecasting if you ask me.
Egghead Junior, what a psycho! The boy, the boy made no sense
whatsoever, moved onto the Armed Forces I understan’,
bragged to me one day he could kill a man with one claw,
a trained hah-sass-in; all I know is he got his own TV show.
Henery Hawk thought the tough act meant he was a wise guy,
but then he hung around with real wiseguys, ended up
ground into burger for some joint out on the highway.

Now there’s a racket! Would you beliebe
they would bring the food to your car
so you could eat it perched there! Who, I say, who
would want to eat in a car? Turns out mill-yuns. Go figure.

All the bruthers of the feather hung together in the day.
Donald always took care of his friends, always good for a laugh,
the drinks were fast and easy with him,. If he wanted to wear
the sailor suit, let him, what he did in his spare time was his business,
enuff with the in-you-end-dough, I say! I say, a duck of his star powah
does as he pleases, fuck them if they can’t take a joke,
Lawd, he could drink like a fish.

Daffy was a riot, a nachurral, he made it all look easy but lan’s end
he worked his butt off, every day, first on set, last to leave—he knew
how to tear it up—but enough with the count my feathahs joke, give it a rest!
No, I’m joshin’, Daffy’s the real McCoy.

Scrooge was far too fucking distant for me, all judgy and smart
and those 3 bright eyed rosy cheeked nephews I could fucking grind into dust
invest with us they said, make a lot of money, and what happened?
what happened? Told me they went bust and now they’re fucking rich tah-coons,
Well what about mah seed mahn-knee, mah seed fun-din I say?
Little shits, I’d like to hold ‘em in my claws and peck ‘em into the ground.

All I wanted to do was bust one in Daisy but it was like she was
all re-lichaas about that — that’s the problem when you want to cross
that species divide thaing — I’ve always said let’s dEdoose this
to the obvious, I’m a rooster, you’re a hen, I don’t care if you’re a
duck, I’m a broad minded boy. I said a gentleman, I saayd
a gentlemen’s prepared to love whomever fate sends him,
but she all-ways said no. A lot. That’s when I realized she
must have been batting for the other side, otherwise
how could she resist all this love to be made with li’l ol’ me?
Enough of that, it don’t matter any mowah.

That’s our burden, what we carry, everything that’s normal
is all out of whack — look at moi — I should have flown the coop,
shuffled this mortal coil long ago, but we live too long, until feathers
molt, bones ache, and our comb lies on its side never to rise again.
This is our curse, we grow old, we are not allowed to die,
and the only meh-di-son worth having is in this little brown jug here
the true many-fuss-station of that what will cure what ails you;

here try some, thar ya go! Now, you’re a member of the church
of well feathered redemption. Speaking of which, you can kain-dly
fuck off, tell anyone how to find me, I’ll track you down
and bite your wings off. Now git!
(Lord of the barnyard, Foghorn debuted in 1946. My most frightening interview to date. GG)