In the name of fairness, full disclosure, and a commitment to honesty, I admit to having dug deep in the box far enough to find something I could read without my assistive devices. I will not be a whiny little bitch about my eyesight, my father’s cursive handwriting (remember back in the good old days when they actually used to teach that?), and my current failure to establish their mutually agreeable rules of engagement – yet – but in order to slake my enthusiasm’s thirst while negotiations continue between my eyes and my father’s hand, I have an interesting nugget here I wanted to bring forward.
I can only guess at the back story of these lyrics, although I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to assume this is some sort of veiled lamentation after being bitched at about never being home or tending to house matters, it’s only a guess. As I have said and will continue to point out, if ever there was a man who mirrored the song “Papa Was a Rolling Stone, “surely my father was that man.
“Tracking Mud” Richard C. Poff
Down in the country
When I was just a lass
My mother used to preach to me
And don’t give me no sass
Don’t come tracking mud in here
Act like you got some class
Nobody with no fetching up
Would ever act like that
When I grew up I practiced
What my Mama used to preach
My husband and my Young’uns
To them I always teach
Don’t come tracking mud in here
Act like you got some class
And that along with other things
Made my man leave me flat
Now I’m just another Widow
Grass to be exact
And wanting me another man
Is more than just a fact
And I’ll take almost anything
That you can send along
And if you don’t believe me
Just listen to my song
Chorus:
He can track mud anytime
Right into my house
Stomp his shoes fling his shoes
I’ll be quiet as a mouse
Anyway that I can get him
Don’t matter where they fall
He can track mud in my house
Just anytime at all
