Grits hen red-eye gravy

Powerful sorrowful sorry
you hen I must part I luv yer little
balls, hen sumtimes ya make meh fart.

I don wanna give ya up, don fret none ‘cause
theh jes ain nothin’ we ken do. But ya’ll
ken blame the wife for this hea mess (I shur do!)

I kent have yer gravy neither, all pinkified
hen such. Oh powerful sorrowful, I mus’
miss hit steerin’ at meh frum ma plate.

I ken haf the butter (an that jes don
make a lick o’ sense to meh.) but
not the biskhits ner the gra-vy!

Little balls in ma mouth, feels jes right, ya
see. Hit tickles ma tongue, then ma gullet,
then slides down to tickle ma tummy.

(Shhh, jes don be telling Jim that there
‘cause I’d never hea the en’ of hit. He’s still
giving meh heck ‘cause I wet the bed
way back when I was three. I could jes tell
ever’ one that he still sleeps whit his Teddy
bear, but then he jes start blabbin habout
last year an’ the corn squeezin’ fi-as-co. So ya
jes better not say nuthin habout none of dis hea
stuff. Jes ta be safe, don go no wheres near Jim…
ya heah?!)

I might miss them taters, hen I might miss
them there Fruit Loops, jes a bit, but nuttin’
ken compare to mah grits hen red-eye!

Ma wife jes’ tol me, ya’ll kent go a’blamin’ her. She
says that sum yank, name of ATKINS his the
man we should be a’gunnin’ fer.


Bubba Whinnery


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Whine & Cheese Folder  [13+] Letters to the Whine & Cheese Company, Inc. and the responses to them. by Writer of the Winds