I read a poem by a man named Blisard
He talked “bout his hat in a lovin way.
I shore don’t want to get his gizzard
But it reminded me of mine I have to this day.

My old hat was sloppy, dirty and brown,
My boots was too you see.
They warn’t  nuthin I’d wear to town.
I wore em  herdin thirty black cattle in Tennessee

I had an old western mare
And a colt ‘41.
I rode that horse every where
But I never could shoot that gun.

I’m a Florida Cracker now
But tha  crackins through.
Somewhere in this old house
is my hat and my boots.