The Sheriff’s Job

Volume 33, Number 1 - Fall 1993

The Sheriff’s job is a curious one;
Like the housewife’s work, it’s never done.

Calls come by night and come by day;
They may be near or miles away.

Do hurry up, says the voice of the caller,
You’re badly needed in Possom Holler.

Paw’s on the rampage—he’s got a gun-
Been looking for Maw since half-past one.

So we jump in the ffivver and hit the trail
And drive like a streamliner carrying the mail.

Our only hope and all we can figger
Is to be on hand before Paw pulls the trigger.

We finally arrive and amid confusion
We learn the affair was a simple delusion.

Paw with his gun was just hunting squirrels;
Maw had gone to school with the two oldest girls.

Next day we’re hunting a mottled-face cow;
That night we referee a nice family row.

Now that’s just a sample of what we do;
An endless variety of the old and the new.

He may be a prowler, a burglar, a drunk,
He may steal your billfold, your watch or your trunk.

We set out to catch him and do our best.
We catch our percentage and lose the rest.

We can’t catch them all, for some leave no clue;
They don’t leave cards, like the candidates do.

Sometimes they plead guilty, and the judge will scold,
And half the country will want them paroled.

They blame the depression, the New Deal, the Tariff,
But most of the folks put the blames on the sheriff.

So it’s quite a game; if you stay right in
You’ll get a pat on the back, and a sock on the chin.

But I like it and I’m shedding no tears
And I’d like to be your sheriff for another four years.

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