Bash'um hard with a hunk o' lard, cowboy,
when they come 'ere to seduce our sons and daughters,
the only sons and daughters we have,
with their damn ideers. They think ideers
are worth somethin' like a Bushel O'Pork
per each. Trahahahaha. They eschew
the feelin's of patriotism, peals of chivalry
'n' private property like. So what does we care
to preserve them as a subspecies? Bein' ourselves
of solid as rock good local stock
'n' rooted in these very hills that we cultivate,
bein' so local that the mind races over
aeons of banjo-tinklin' memory of roots
like echoes in the prairied valley, being
precisely that kinda stock, honest blue grass treadin',
we're buyin' none of that Uruguay political correctness.
None, I be tellin' ya m's'ladies!
We automatic'ly
put that subspecies under suspicion, zitwere.
The shmuck (pardon me, Sir, me
umbilical vernacular) hadta be tryin' to
spray us around wi' hi' curlture.
He said he be a-dribblin' learnin' into our heads
wi' like critical thinkin' routines.
But without shittn' y'uns, I muss hereinafter d'claire
his reasonin' ta be sorely wrong an' fallaiches.
In fact, it is beyond fallaiches. Whatever.
Y'uns havin' troubles hearin' or somethin'? We been
on this land for gwerk knows how many a century,
from eras immemorable, and we know,
havin' built these here barns and infrastructure,
we know without prejudice
and in good shape 'n' hope 'n' faith 'n' all
of mind and body like, we know
exact what the heck it cost to keep
the streets of our polity clean,
Partridge and Dingleberry Rock Village Plaza,
positively speakin' straight narrow clean.
I do repeat, straight narrow clean,
of all yum culturevultures with all yum
cloggin' dog's doo an' piece o'shit ideers.


(Philip was my classmate at Harvard in the 1990s, but despite that early disadvantage in life, he is now the proud editor of Fulcrum: An Annual of Poetry and Aesthetics and the author of several poetry books including Letters from Aldenderry, from which "Ideers" is reprinted by permission. Visit his MySpace page here.)