to be sung to the tune of The Wearin' o' the Green
My mother was a Hatfield, my father a McCoy.
It made my life exciting when I was a small boy.
The hills of home resounded with feuding loyalty.
They hanged each other from the branches of my family tree.
When Grandpa Hatfield shot my cousin out behind his shack
my father snuck me to the wake behind my mother's back.
My mother caught him drinking toasts to honor poor old Phil.
She didn't say a word but went and burned down Father's still.
I skipped church whene'er I could. I didn't know where to sit.
If I went with the Hatfields then my father threw a fit.
If with McCoys I tried to join my mother boxed my ears.
Compared to Mother's anger, fire and brimstone held no fears.
I walked on quite a tight rope when I was just a lad.
I never could quite pacify my mother or my dad.
I tried to call a truce one time and called myself McHat.
It lasted 'til my parents heard---that was the end of that.
Whene'er I tried to emulate my father or my mother
I'd always get in trouble from one side or the other.
As an adult I no longer tried to please my kin and kith.
I moved to New York City and I changed my name to Smith.