Sunday. I come in through the back door 'cause the front door is locked. Poor ol' Mom's all along, sitting in her rockin' chair, jist a-rockin' while she strums her banjo, smokin' her ol' corncob pipe, takin' a pull now an' then from the jug of corn squeezins thats a-sittin' on the porch next to her, an' jist cryin' her heart out cuz none of her chilluns have come 'round ta see her yet.

Hi, Mom!