Dog Box Road
We were playin' the bar down on Dog Box Road,
I forget what they called it that year,
but it was always the same, whatever the name,
and stank of smoke and beer.
The place was full of the reddest rednecks
and rougher than my morning stubble,
with a chicken wire cage around the stage
to keep us out of trouble.
It looked to be a pretty good gig
and closin' time was comin'
when some drunken fool who was shooting pool
hit on another guy's woman.
Well, this fellow took his cue
from a stick upside the head;
someone started to shout and a fight broke out,
bottles flew and noses bled.
There are better things to do on a Saturday night
than playing music for a barroom fight,
while the beer and blood both flowed
down at the bar on Dog Box Road.
Stuff was bouncing off our cage,
bottles and bodies and chairs.
We wanted to live and it was fixin' to give
before we wound up our affairs.
I got on the mike, tried to calm 'em down
but no one heard my plea;
when a stray bullet parted my mullet
I knew this was no place to be.
Forget the money, this set is done,
time to pack up and go.
Chicken wire won't stop gunfire
so we kept our heads real low.
And never went back to Dog Box Road
nor stepped foot on that stage;
we're stayin' far away from that bar
and livin' to a ripe old age.
Stephen Brooke ©2011
A song, of course, and fairly rough at the moment. As usual, musical ideas come into my head as soon as I get a few words down. This, being a rather open-ended narrative, could easily have the story (such as it is) expanded, extended, whatever. Shoot, it could run on and on but there would have to be something interesting going on to justify it -- a real story.
Dog Box Road: There is such a road but, so far as I know, no bar is on it. It just seemed too neat a name not to use it for something. Btw, for those not Southern/Country enough to know, a dog box is the semi-permanent crate you have in the back of your pickup truck to transport your hunting dogs. Pretty common to see them around these parts.