We Spat Grape Hulls


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We Spat Grape Hulls on the Hole

(An opening dramatization presents father, son, and family dog enjoying a summer afternoon feast of grapes at their homestead arbor. The son, looking 'round for a likely target at which he might spit his grape hulls, espies a small hole in the ground at the base of an arbor pole some distance away, then he challenges his willing father to an all-out, old-fashioned, hull-spitting contest: "Hey, Dad! Betcha I can spit my grape hulls onto that little hole over there before you can!" This leads directly into one very lively competition and to the very lively song at hand.)

We spat grape hulls on the hole
By that old arbor pole
And we thought that stomachaches
From eatin’ too much grapes
Was the worst that could happen at the most
But when that hull-plugged hole did bulge
Then blew off our grapey lid
Well, God forbid! What had been hid
Made us call on the Heavenly Host


For it was Yellow Jacket City
It was a town without pity
That sent out every resident in flight
What to chase us till we cried
What to sting us deaf and dumb
And to give us all one heart-stopping fright 

So we took off ‘cross the yard
One man, one boy, one dog
And we pumped our legs like Mark Twain’s jumping frog
Oh, we really hauled some ass
We were traveling first class
Till that swarm of bees caught us near the trees
In a horrible yellow fog

We must have looked like homemade sin
We must have made one hellish din
As we flailed and hollered
Jesus, help us please!

For if you ever have been stung by the awful likes of them
Well, you must know it’s like a hammer blow
Then an aching quaking quease


But the Good Lord smiled on us
At least the boy and me, that is
For every one of those yellow jackets flew
Right to the jet-black coat
Of our faithful, fleeing pooch
And they tried and tried to nail his hide
Through that long, long hair he grew

So my boy and I we raced
To the coiled-up garden hose
And we turned it on; we let that water rip
And we damn near drowned our dog
Blasting off that yellow fog
But blast we did - an’ it’s no lie, kid –
Back to that pole we took a hiking trip...

And it was Yellow Jacket City
And we gave that town no pity
That’d sent out every resident in flight
Yeah, we burned the whole thing down
Hey, we burned it underground
Then we ate and ate another ton o’ grapes
Till the coming of the night
Oh, we ate and ate another ton o’ grapes
Till the coming of the night

Dusk:  Lead Vocal
DeDe Vogt:  Electric Bass Guitar, Mandolin
Linda Bolley:  Drums
Johnny Mosier:  Acoustic Guitar
Mark Van Allen:  Dobro
Berne Poliakoff:  Harmony Vocals
Taylor Mack:  As Dusk’s son Forest in the dramatic re-enactment that precedes this track

This one’s for you, Forest, and for your faithful Cocker-a-Spanish-a-dog, Master, who is also known as The Master of Disaster.

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This site was last updated 04/25/06