Six pack, yeh, wish I had a six pack. Six pack of Budweiser. Blood wiser. Blood coutry. And that's what it is, too. It's blood country. Sweet, sticky, and sanguine by nature. The spirit of this blood country thing pumps through big, strong hearts everywhere. Rushing through the progeny of plowboys, cowboys, sharecroppers, gunfighters, bootleggers, and whores and dance hall queens. It hangs on us and around us like the smell of sweat and corn liquor. Honest enough, but difficult to explain to anyone who's never been burning hot or blind drunk. An old whiskey hero of mine used to say that he had too much blood in his alcohol stream. Now, that's a hell of a remark, if you think about it. And me, I think about it a lot. "Damn, this love is strange and strong and it weighs about a ton, resting heavy on my shoulders when the working day is done." Anyhow, another day is dying now in the fiery furnace of July. I reckon it's about time to kick back, bare footed, on the front porch, and have another six pack. Hell, maybe two.