Body Farm

Today reading the grisly and sensational details of the Caylee Anthony saga, I learned that a DNA match was found for the little girl by investigators at the Body Farm right around the corner from me here at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville.

While Memphis has Elvis, Nashville has the Grand Ole Opry, and Chattanooga has the renowned Choo-Choo, Knoxville, a town replete with ghost legend and lore, has the labs where they made the bomb that blew up Hiroshima in nearby Oak Ridge—and the Body Farm. This latter place is as grisly a claim to fame as one could ever imagine. Basically, cadavers arrive here from all over the country when the ways and means of the checkout have proven to be elusive. The scientists and their scalpels then have a field day upon the dead bodies, in hopes of providing the missing tidbit of evidence that will exonerate someone or have them locked away for life.

I couldn’t help deriving sick black humor out of this and have penned the following lyric, possible words for a future country song that might be produced in the sunnier part of the state, about this ominous corner of the UT campus—

Body Farm

I’m going to the Body Farm
They’re going to find out how I died
They’ll get to the heart of it
Who fired, who fell, who lied

I’m going to the Body Farm
Down in Knoxville, Tennessee
They won’t rest until they know
Who got the best of me

I was once a young buck
On the Reagan gravy train
Till they came here with their microchips
And scrambled up my brain

I’m going to the Body Farm
Down in Knoxville, Tennessee
They won’t rest until they know
Who got the best of me

I’m going to the Body Farm
When it’s over, I’ll be clean
They sort me out from head to toe
And every neuron in between

I’m going to the Body Farm
Down in Knoxville, Tennessee
They won’t rest until they know
Who got the best of me

I’m going to the Body Farm
Down in Knoxville, Tennessee
They won’t rest until they know
Who got the best of me