Parson Tomsson took a call

Yankee that he was

Down to Appalachian holllow

and he only knew, because

Something drove him down there

Some spirit fire within

Unction for new sermons

To save the flock from sin

Tomsson’s son had gone away

College days had beckoned

No one ever from the hollow 

Got there, Parson reckoned

Thought it might be just the thing

Invite his son on down

To the little country gospel sing

And share his guitar sound

Harv was just a greenhorn

‘bout Southern social stuff

But once they heard that guitar riff

He impressed them sure enough

One was the deacon’s daughter

The local apple blossom queen

She had cheeks that fairly glowed

And the greenest eyes he’d seen.

Eighteen to his twenty

And beauty to his brains

But how to make connection

The logic fairly strains

He didn’t know her secret fear

Not knowing her true worth

For she was trapped in Appalachia

And had been since her birth.

She tossed her walnut curly mane

And sauntered where he stood

With arms akimbo softly drawled,

“Bet you think you’re pretty good.”

She wouldn’t even ha’ wasted time

Except for her heart’s flutter

But Harv was staggered by her openin’ line

Still, he managed not to stutter,

“And I bet you liked that beauty prize

When you wore that crystal crown.”

With that she twirled and spun away

Leaving Harv to win the round.

And though his friends who witnessed all

Thought Harv was downright witty

He later knew he’d blown his chance

With a maiden truly pretty.

If he had it all to do again

He’d affirm her keen perception

Thank her that she thought so, too,

Then wait for her reception.

For Southern women, even country girls

And those of comely worth

Still want their man to flatter them

As the goddesses of earth.