As dyed-in-the-wool Southerners -Libby’s from south of the Mason-Dixon line, and Megan hails from south of the Equator -the Bar Belles were tickled to find a bar that appeals to one’s inner hick.

Trailer Park is decorated with PWT (poor white trash) must-haves such as pink flamingos, a clothesline hanging over the bar (heavy with pantyhose and, um, panties), a toilet seat indicating the hall to the bathroom, and groupings of lawn chairs instead of winged-back chaises.

The place has an Opry-approved juke box, an overly-sweet house cocktail meant to be shared, and bottles of Bud that are so cold you would swear they’d been chillin’ in the icy crick of the local swimming holler. (We stocked up on “Nudie Cutie” pens, printed with bathing-suited men and women who “strip” when you flip them, which are sold for $3.50 from behind the bar.)

Unfortunately, it ain’t cheap to play poor: said Budweisers are $5 and a pitcher of margaritas’ll run you 36 bucks. Luckily, the d’cor’s reason enough to go: Hard-core PWT-aficionados will flip their trucker caps.

271 W. 23rd St., between Seventh and Eighth avenues, (212) 463-8000.