Chitlin Sausage Pome

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Y'all have such a purdy face,

Boss man of the sausage race

Over em all you take yer place

A heap o' guts and chitlins.

Grampa, won't you say the grace?

And make it short and fittin'.


You plum fill up my scoopin spoon

Your fat ass like a Georgia moon,

That pin would like to stitch a coon

When we'uns is a hurtin'.

Plump as a carnival balloon

Yer juices is a squirtin'!


That good ol' boy cleaned off his knife

And cut you like you was his wife...

Split ya open, drained yer life,

An glory be! Yer guts spilt out.

They's some good eatin in that slice!

That's real food, they're aint no doubt


Then the good old boys dig in.

They stuff their faces, grunt and grin,

Greasy trails down the chin...

Tho Cleetus woulda belched aloud

To be polite he held it in

His restraint made mama proud!


That Yankee with his fancy pies,

Slick city food, raw fish and eyes

That's like to make yer bile rise.

He might think this Southern dish

That's just some innards in disguise

Ain't good enough to feed to fish.


Look at him, jes sippin tea

His bony arm, his knobby knee

He sure don't look too tough to me!

And if he wound up in a fight

With Billy Bob or Jimmy Lee,

He'd like to run off in a fright.


But take a look at Cletus here!

He built that gut with grits and beer.

An' ain't nobody far or near

That wants to tussle with this boy.

He'll split your lip, he'll box your ear

And knock you over like a toy.


If y'all care about yer kin

And where good Southern eats fit in,

Old Dixie don't want nothin' thin

That you might slop fer hawgs.

So if you want to see a grin,

Jes' feed me chitlin sausage dawgs!

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