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Amos Moses – Jerry Reed

About the SongJerry Reed – The Best Of Jerry Reed (1981, Indianapolis Pressing, Barcode, Vinyl) - Discogs

erry Reed’s “Amos Moses” is a classic country comedy song that tells the outrageous tale of a Cajun man who lives in the Louisiana swamp and hunts alligators for a living. Reed’s witty storytelling and impeccable guitar skills make this song a timeless favorite. 

The song begins with a humorous introduction, setting the scene for the eccentric character of Amos Moses. Reed’s distinctive vocal style, combined with his playful delivery, adds to the song’s comedic appeal. The lyrics paint a vivid picture of Amos’s life in the swamp, complete with his unique methods for hunting alligators and his encounters with the local sheriff.

Reed’s guitar playing is equally impressive. His intricate picking and rhythmic strumming provide a solid foundation for the song, while his lead guitar solos showcase his virtuosity. The song’s catchy melody and upbeat tempo make it impossible not to tap your foot along.

“Amos Moses” has become a beloved country classic, often used as a line dance tune. Its enduring popularity is a testament to Reed’s songwriting talent and his ability to create memorable characters. Whether you’re a country music fan or simply enjoy a good laugh, “Amos Moses” is a song that will never get old.  Picture background

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Lyrics: “Amos Moses”

 

Yeah here comes Amos
Now Amos Moses was a Cajun he lived by himself in the swamp
He hunted alligators for a livin’ he’d just knock ’em in the head with a stump
The Louisiana law’s gonna get ya Amos
It ain’t legal huntin’ alligators down in the swamp boy
Now everybody blames his old man for makin’ him mean as a snake
When Amos Moses was a boy his daddy would use him for alligator bait
Tie a rope around his waist and throw him in the swamp ha ha ha
Alligator bait in the Louisiana bayou
About forty five minutes southeast of Thibodaux Louisiana
Lived a man called Doc Millsap and his pretty wife Hannah
Well they raised up a son that could eat up his weight in groc’ries
Named him after the man of the cloth called him Amos Moses
Yeah ha haNow all the folks around south Louisiana said Amos was a hell of a man
He could trap the biggest the meanest alligator and just use one hand
That’s all he got left cause the alligator bit him ha ha ha
Left arm gone clean up to the elbow
Well the sheriff got wind that Amos was in the swamp trappin’ alligator skins
So he snuck in the swamp gonna get the boy but he never come out again
Well I wonder where the Louisiana sheriff went to
Well you can sure get lost in the Louisiana bayou
About forty five minutes southeast of Thibodaux Louisiana
Lived a cat called Doc Millsap and his pretty wife Hannah
Well they raised up a son that could eat up his weight in groc’ries
Named him after a man of the cloth called him Amos Moses
Sit down on ’em Amos make it count son
About forty five minutes southeast of Thibodaux Louisiana
Lived a cat called Doc Millsap and his pretty wife Hannah

 

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HIS FATHER TOLD HIM TO PUT DOWN THE GUITAR. NASHVILLE FORGOT HIM. TWICE. HE CAME BACK IN A WHEELCHAIR AND STILL WOULDN’T SHUT UP. Vern Gosdin grew up hauling rocks and chopping cotton in Woodland, Alabama. His father tried music once, failed, and forbade his son from ever touching a guitar. Vern left home and never looked back — never saw his father again. He moved to California. Then Chicago. Then Nashville. Two record labels went bankrupt under him. Nobody called. Nobody came looking. So he quit, moved to Georgia, and sold glass for a living. But he kept a guitar in his truck. In the late ’70s, he crawled back to Nashville — older, broker, and angrier than every pretty boy on country radio. He didn’t sound trendy. He sounded like a man who’d been through hell and could prove it. Then he wrote “Chiseled in Stone” and beat every superstar in town for CMA Song of the Year. Tammy Wynette called him “the only singer who can hold a candle to George Jones.” In 1998, a stroke stole his voice. He kept writing from a wheelchair. 101 songs. Still fighting. They called him “The Voice.” Nashville called him too late. Does knowing how many times Vern Gosdin had to start over make “Chiseled in Stone” hit even harder now?

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THEY LOOKED LIKE FOUR OUTLAWS WHO COULD OUTRUN TIME ITSELF. BUT WHEN YOU WATCH THE HIGHWAYMEN SING “BIG RIVER” TODAY, THE EMPTY MICROPHONES BREAK YOUR HEART. Onstage, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, and Willie Nelson looked untouchable. Four weathered men, four different wounds, four voices that made country music sound dangerous, honest, and free. When they traded verses on Cash’s “Big River,” it wasn’t just another performance. It was four old brothers chasing the same song down the same river, each one carrying a piece of the road in his voice. Cash brought the thunder. Waylon brought the grit. Kris brought the broken-poet soul. Willie floated above it all with that calm, aching grace only he could carry. Back then, the stage lights made it easy to believe they would always be there. That was the beautiful lie of watching legends stand side by side. But time does what no outlaw ever could: it catches everyone. Today, Cash is gone. Waylon is gone. Kris has crossed the river too. Willie is the only one left, still playing, still standing, still carrying a brotherhood that can never fully gather again. That is why “Big River” feels different now. It is no longer just a song about chasing something you cannot hold. It feels like time itself moving past four men we were not ready to lose. The song remains. But three microphones are empty. Does “Big River” feel heavier now that Willie is the only one left to sing it?

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