With no apologies to Joe Nichols’
“Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off”
Poems don’t stomp a country beat
To make you tap your booted feet
They aren’t equipped with catchy hooks
Adorned by cowboys’ flashy looks
Repeated ’til your brain-root rots—
But poems make my clothes fall off
Music’s all ’bout sex, it’s said
While poetry’s ’bout what fills your head
It cannot make you dance or trance
Or get inside that cowgirl’s pants
Poetry doesn’t move or groove—
But words still get me in the mood
There’s nothing quite like throbbing brains
To pump some heat throughout my veins
So keep your grinding pistoled hips
And puns about the waitress’ tips
All that horseshit makes me soft—
Yes, poems make my clothes fall off