Down at the edge of the Brooklin line,
Eric’s yelling “No doubt!” for the hundredth time,
Polar Pop cup full of Allen’s brandy brew,
Dentures rattlin’ loose while he spits and chews.
Tammy’s in the kitchen and the whole place shakes,
Throwin’ insults hotter than the woodstove breaks,
She screams, “You’re the reject of the family tree!”
He yells back, “Big titted bitch, quit yellin’ at me!”
Then comes that laugh through the one-hitter haze,
“huhleehuhleeeeuahhh!” like a swamp ghost craze,
Sadistic cackle through the house walls,
Makes the damn dog bark and the old shelf fall.
Chorus
“huhleehuhleeeeuahhh!” hear Eric roar,
Didn’t pass ninth grade but he still wants more,
“No dodger this year, eel season sucked,”
Jimmy Manning’s crew all cracked-out and fucked.
Time to get drink on, brandy flowing free,
Reject of the family, king of misery.
Eric’s working for Jimmy punching cards all day,
Adding extra hours in his own crooked way,
Says “No doubt buddy, I was there till three,”
Even though he left at noon to drink brandy free.
Rolling through town in the truck called the Red Dragon slow,
Allen’s fumes pouring out wherever he goes,
When he burps it sounds like a diesel blew,
Makes Brett damn near puke in his Grundéns boots too.
Then Eric just grins through his crooked fake teeth,
Takes another swig and lets the madness breathe.
Meanwhile Emmett’s tearing through the woods at night,
Leather jacket on looking half feral in the light,
Me and Brett caught him on the game cam feed,
Running through the cedars at alarming speed.
We said, “Eric, your boy’s gone fully insane,”
Eric shrugged and laughed through the pouring rain,
“Oh that’s Emmett doing his thing,” he said,
Then started mixing another drink with his face all red.
Later Brett gets a text around quarter to one:
“Wyatt has left and I’m rolling a joint, son.”
We’re dying laughing in the side-by-side glow,
While Mookie’s barking at a porcupine below.
Chorus
“huhleehuhleeeeuahhh!” hear Eric roar,
Driving that Subaru Malibu to the package store,
“No doubt boys, time to get drink on,”
Polar Pop brandy from dusk till dawn.
Reject of the family, legend of the bay,
Still somehow surviving another Maine day.
Now the moon hangs low on the 65 land,
Empty Allen’s bottles scattered through the sand,
Eric yelling “COO COO!” with a drink in his hand,
Talking about dodgers and some half-baked plan.
But somehow every season comes back around,
And you’ll still hear that eerie awful sound:
“huhleehuhleeeeuahhh!” through the black spruce fog,
Like a haunted loon mixed with an old swamp dog.
