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Shame on the Grand Ole Opry and the entertainment media for trying to dovetail this new country western music with the old.

It’s not the music from the hills and not the music I grew up on, listening to guys like Hawkshaw Hawkins and Little Jimmy Dickens on WWVA. These new artists with their phoney nasal twangs, their moaning and groaning and ridiculous rhymes are nothing more than cacophonous quacks promoting snake oil as the genuine stuff.

Here’s one of my own concoctions that would serve their genre. It’s called “Wild Wicked Waco Woman.”

“I worshipped you woman and clung to every word you said. Yet you called me worthless and threw me from your bed. I worked two jobs to give you everything to buy. But you ran around on the sly and cheated with every guy. You picked me up over your head and slammed me to the floor. Then grabbed me by the seat of the pants and threw me out the door. Now I’m sleeping underneath a weeping willow just outside of Amarillo with an armadillo for a pillow and I won’t be back for more.”

There, throw that little gem into your sausage grinder and add it to your ridiculous repertoire and see how quick it climbs to number one on the charts.

No, I’ll have none of this nonsense. Give me Gentleman Jim Reeves with “Four Walls,” Johnny Cash with “Ring of Fire,” George Morgan with “Candy Kisses,” Doug Kershaw with “Diggy Liggy Lo,” Hank Williams with “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings with “Mama Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys,” Eddie Arnold with “Bouquet of Roses,” Marty Robbins with “El Paso,” Ray Price with “Crazy Arms,” or Kitty Wells with “Honky Tonk Angels.”

These singers and their songs are the Real McCoy. As Johnny Paycheck might say: You can take this new fangled country music and shove it.

Lloyd Berresford