Well I been camping out by a pond full of beaver and wood ducks and flickers and redwings and bullfrogs, who along with others have serenaded me nearly without ceasing. So I figured if you can't beat 'em . . .
Back in the 1920s a traveling teamster with a five-string and a plug hat heard some black Mississippi stevedores singing this tune on the docks. He asked them to show it to him, then he played it himself for the rest of his life.
Sweet the way the Pisgah Possum, with its pot and neck of cherry and persimmon wood, rings out across the pond water and the bottom ground.
O, there's nothing to do but to sit down and sing, and rock about my Saro Jane.
Hope all's well.
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[Beg pardon for the imperfections. I blame the pile of Laurelwood empties, and a whiff of the old Durban's Poison.]
