Clover Scratch

Mr. Scratch is tired of old Americana folk songs

He can’t even propose to a girl without her mouth twitching

The South does that to a pretty girl

Pretty, pure, Bible girl

He knows that those two horns don’t belong

Only the name dictates his thereafter reputation

I’m Clover like the four-leaf-luck and not the other guy

-Oh sure, I’m just a little star struck, ha ha-

-Lucy and Splitfoot, Old Scratch and Morningstar-

-Like how Adam sang with his chords at the bar, you know?-

Yet people in his circle think of pitchforks and tails

Caressing the air with swings and glances all so cheap and debonair

The Devil doesn’t know which son shares his school name

But Clover hates more than the lost son

More than Old Scratch in the ballad songs

Call me Clover like the plant

But there’s no luck in life with a name like Scratch

And there’s no solace in repeating truths

Like Clover’s perpetual rants and fury

Truthful words they may be

But they strike the ears and skin like in the Old Book

Anger and scorn that beat the clover’s luck

Walking oxymoron, more like a moron ha ha

At least when he falls short of his explaining

Still, more luck than you can beg for

For drunken parents with poor judgment