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From TaterPedia

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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