The legend lives on from the Dixie line down
Of the big bloke they called Bubba-Skeeter
The man, it’s been said, was somewhat poorly bred
He wore overalls and a wife beater
Haulin’ horse feed and such, just about half as much
As his Trail Boss weighed (load not withstandin’)
That good truck was jacked, the rear window jam-packed
With decals like “3” and “Let’s Go Brandon”

The truck was the pride of the Arkansas side
Of the Mississip, near Marianna
As big pickups go, it was painted camo
And played music from Garth to Nirvana
Having just said goodbye to the Tractor Supply
When they left fully loaded for Parkin
His bro Jimmy-Don, he was ridin’ shotgun
As they drove to the farm they’d been workin’

Their luck was maligned, as they got stuck behind
An open rail trailer, slow wheelin’
The rig had three decks, and was over weight specs
Full of pigs that were noisily squealin’
The road was not straight, and our boys had to wait
For a clear line of sight to go passin’
And besides goin’ slow, they were in the airflow
Of the smell that those pigs was out-gassin’

When straightaway came, Bubba-Skeeter took aim
But the trailer swerved well left of center
It kept pulling wide, and slalomed side to side
So the left lane their truck could not enter
“Mort’s Cattle & Swine,” he glanced on the sign
With which the pig truck was appareled
With a first name like Mort, he must be from up nort’
‘Cause redneck names are all double-barreled

As anyone knows, if a normal horn blows
It could not be heard over that squealin’
But BS and JD, they both chortled with glee,
Mort did not know with what he was dealin’
The Trail Boss was adorned with three banks of airhorns
Each the size of a sub-contra tuba
Upon activation, that airhorn formation
Could be heard from Spokane to Aruba

A wide swath of crops just flattens and drops
In a radius of twenty miles
Dead whales washed ashore for fifteen days more
As far south as the Chandeleur Isles
The Trail Boss slowed down, as production of sound
From the engine diverted all power
Placing them right below the colossal brown flow
Of the just released porcine shit shower

The Trail Boss was a mess, as our heroes egressed
From the shitstorm with which they’d been laureled
They’d just about drowned, ‘cause their windows were down
Those two poor men with names double-barreled
The legend lives on from the Dixie line down
Of the big bloke they called Bubba-Skeeter
His truck, it’s been said, it’s horns could wake the dead
But a trailer of pigs would defeat her