THE WRECK OF ME PAPAW'S MEAT SPICKET

[Sung to the tune of  "WRECK OF THE EDMUND FITZGERALD" by Gordon Lightfoot]

The legend lives on from Bama’s kin yon,
Of the meat spicket sprung by me Papaw;
The meat, it is said, never takes kind to head,
When the gums of me Mamaw turn gloomy.

With a load of his jizz, a gazillion tons more,
Than me Papaw’s member weighed empty;
That good and true package was a bone to be chewed,
When me Mamaw got mad due to Papaw coming early.

The biscuits was the pride of me Mamaw’s front side,
Coming back from an outhouse in the mountains;
As the big utters go, they were bigger than most,
With a left and right boob well-seasoned.

Concluding some puffs with a couple steel tugs,
When me Papaw’s glands left fully loaded;
And later that night when the balls did sprang,
Could it be my Mamaw’s wind he'd be feelin'?

The teeth in Mamaw’s mouth made the tattle-tale sound,
And the tongue broke over Papaw’s taint railing;
And me Mamaw did knew, as me Papaw did too
T'was the scream of me Papaw be squealin’.

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait,
When me Mamaw’s big bisquits be lashin';
When afternoon came, me Papaw drained his vein,
Gravy in the face of me one and only Mamaw.

When supper time came, the old coot came on porch sayin',
Mamaw, it's too rough to squeeze ya;
At 7 P.M. me Papaw’s spicket caved in, he said
Mamaw, it's been good to know ya.

Me Mamaw wired in she had spooge comin' in,
And her face and eyes was in peril;
And later that night when the lights went out of sight,
Came the wreck of me Papaw’s meat spicket.

Does any one know where the love of G-d goes,
When the meat spicket spurns the minutes to hours?
Me Mamaw did say she’d rather be gay,
If she looked at me Papaw from behind her.

Papaw’s member might have bent wrong or it might have exploded,
It may have broke deep and collapsed;
And all that remains is the faces and the names,
Of the son called Bama of Celebration.

Rob C rolls, Real Man sings,
In the rooms of their fake mansion lives;
T.O.D. steams with his son’s fallen dreams,
Celebration is only for collectors.

And farther below there is E don’t you know,
Promises sketches and falls on the wayside;
But truth be known, as the card guys all know,
E’s promises are eventually remembered.

In a musty old hall in Anaheim they prayed,
In the Convention Center's main hall;
The lightsaber’s hum chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times,
For each puff of dirt from me Papaw.

The legend lives on from the Alabama on down,
Of the big hillbilly they call me Papaw;
Clive Revel, they said, never gives up his signature,
When the gales of Bama come often and early.