It helps to be humming this little ditty
Come and listen to a story 'bout a man named Hick
You knew he was Southern cause his dialect was thick,
The cacher’s all knew him as a hockey dude,
And you could always find him wherever there was food.
(BBQ, that is, chicken leg, ham bone...)
One rainy day he asked about the story of his Pa,
Ma heaved a little sigh and stiffened up her jaw.
“Your Pa was a whiskey-man, the best by-far around,
Folks would come to get a jug from clear all over town.”
(Corn, that is, Yellow Gold, Cat-Daddy...)
His still was nestled in beneath the long-leaf needle pines,
And he would even give them some if they didn't have a dime.
The Army came a callin' and offered us a mule,
If he would let them make his mash into tank fuel.
(Gas, that is, kerosene, runnin' lean...)
She told his Pa to go ahead, she'd take care of our land,
So he went to support the cause and help his fellow man.
Back home, she tended to the chores and if someone was sick
She'd send them off with a quart or two of sweet "Cat-Daddy-Hick."
(Cure, that is, colicy young-uns, sneezin' fits...)
She told him of the War and how his Paw had made it home,
And told him of the immigrate who also came along.
Hailing from the Old Country, he took to Mama's cookin’,
And also down a shot or two when no-one else was lookin’.
(Swig, that is, just a splash, warm and fuzzy...)
"Your Paw never told him the secrets of his mash,
Even though he offered your Paw a lot of cash.
I thought he was a no-account, this I tell you son,
I never went no place that I didn't tote my gun.”
(Colt, that is, Fourty-four, in my apron...)
She went on to tell him about the day the rascal left,
He took all the money and her jewelry while they slept.
Jars of whiskey, corn and bags of sugar too,
And set fire to the still to cover-up his rue.
(Thief, that is, low-down, no account...)
"Your Pa tore after him over hill and over dale,
but his gimpy leg allowed Demetri to prevail.
He came home low and beaten, I mended to his cuts,
And from that moment forward, son, your Paw was going nuts."
(Coo-Coo for Coco Puffs, that is, paper dolls, funny farm...)
Demetri died a pauper 'cause he just didn't have the touch.
His attempts to make fine whiskey didn't amount to much.
He was found inside his freezer tryin' to cool the fire,
Of the poison he had brewed with nary a desire.
(Cold, that is, tingly toes, frozen olives...)
She handed me a yellow scrap of paper, scuffed and torn,
Left behind by Pa on a dreary Sunday morn.
"He had headed out to find the man that stole his jar,
When a church van ran him over outside "Demetri's Bar."
(Worm dirt, that is, eighty-six, pushin' daisies...)
"Your Pa died with his secret, or so I've often felt,
Until I found this code hidden inside his old belt."
His recipe may be here, Heaven only knows,
But even if it's not, you are finished with this prose!
(Go!, that is, Hit the road! Find the Cache! )
You never know what's in the Cat-Daddy stash awaiting for you!