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Most people know the song “A Boy Named Sue” by Johnny Cash. Cash was at the height of his popularity when he recorded it live in 1969 at San Quentin State Prison in California.

What I didn’t know until recently — a terrible lapse in my cultural literacy — is that “A Boy Named Sue” was written by Shel Silverstein, the late poet, musician, author, cartoonist, etc.

Silverstein never said for sure, but the inspiration for the song may have been his close friend, writer Jean Shepherd, who was taunted as a child because the name “Jean” can be feminine.

Others think it was inspired by Sue K. Hicks, a male attorney who served as a prosecutor at the 1925 “Scopes Monkey Trial” in Tennessee. Attorney Hicks was named for his mother, who died during his birth.

Although a lawyer of either sex named “Sue” is pretty funny, Shepherd and Hicks don’t exactly strike me as poster boys for the premise of the song.

“A Boy Named Sue” turned out to be the biggest single of Cash’s career. He and Silverstein both won Grammy Awards for the song in 1970.

The version below is Silverstein’s original. Cash varied the lyrics a bit, and he spiced it up by changing “I’m the nut that named you Sue” to “I’m the son-of-a-bitch…” but no harm done.

Illustration by Dave Armstrong.

A Boy Named Sue

By Johnny Cash, 1969
Written by Shel Silverstein

Well, my daddy left home when I was three,
and he didn’t leave much to Ma and me,
just this old guitar and a bottle of booze.
Now I don’t blame him because he run and hid,
but the meanest thing that he ever did was
before he left he went and named me Sue.

Well, he must have thought it was quite a joke,
and it got lots of laughs from a lot of folks,
it seems I had to fight my whole life through.
Some gal would giggle and I’d get red
and some guy would laugh and I’d bust his head,
I tell you, life ain’t easy for a boy named Sue.

Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean.
My fists got hard and my wits got keen.
Roamed from town to town to hide my shame.
But I made me a vow to the moon and the stars,
I’d search the honky tonks and bars and kill
that man that gave me that awful name.

But it was Gatlinburg in mid July and I had
just hit town and my throat was dry.
I thought I’d stop and have myself a brew.
At an old saloon in a street of mud,
and at a table dealing stud, sat the dirty,
mangy dog that named me Sue.

Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad
from a worn-out picture that my mother had,
and I knew the scar on his cheek and his evil eye.
He was big and bent and gray and old
and I looked at him and my blood ran cold,
and I said, “My name is Sue. How do you do?
Now you’re gonna die.” Yeah, that’s what I told him.

Well, I hit him right between the eyes, and he went down,
but to my surprise, he came up with a knife
and cut off a piece of my ear. But I busted a chair
right across his teeth. And we crashed through
the wall and into the street, kicking and a-gouging
in the mud and the blood and the beer.

I tell you I’ve fought tougher men,
but I really can’t remember when.
He kicked like a mule and bit like a crocodile.
I heard him laughin’ and then I heard him cussin’,
he went for his gun and I pulled mine first.
He stood there looking at me and I saw him smile.

And he said, “Son, this world is rough and if
a man’s gonna make it, he’s gotta be tough,
and I knew I wouldn’t be there to help you along.
So I gave you that name and I said ‘Goodbye’.
I knew you’d have to get tough or die. And it’s
that name that helped to make you strong.”

Yeah, he said, “Now you have just fought one
helluva fight, and I know you hate me and you’ve
got the right to kill me now and I wouldn’t blame you
if you do. But you ought to thank me before I die
for the gravel in your guts and the spit in your eye
because I’m the nut that named you Sue.”
Yeah, what could I do? What could I do?

I got all choked up and I threw down my gun,
called him pa and he called me son,
and I came away with a different point of view.
And I think about him now and then,
Every time I try, every time I win,
and if I ever have a son,
I think I’m gonna name him
Bill or George — anything but Sue.

Shel Silverstein