Ode to BBQ
Ameri-cue, the Beautiful
(A whole-hog homage to our national passion)
When we drive out past the tire store
to a smoky joint with no decor,
and gnaw a rack or two or three,
then wash it down with sweet ice tea,
That's Ameri-cue.
Hickory haze makes meat taste sweeter,
and beloved by most, ?cept folks from PETA.
But even they might be won over
to ribs or ham or butt or shoulder
If it's Ameri-cue.
(Oh, slaw, slaw, oughta be a law, ?gainst snarfing too much cabbage slaw.)
While we dine we may, perchance,
see folks straight from Deliverance,
or mayors or moms or rich old crones,
with grub that's democratic to the bone.
Ameri-cue.
There ain't no wine, no sniffing corks,
just Miller Lite and plastic forks.
And waitresses who love to chat:
"Sweetie" this and "honey" that,
About Ameri-cue.
(Oh, beans, beans, dress in jeans and eat a crock of sweet baked beans.)
In Memphis it's the ribs that thrill us.
Just too bad they helped kill Elvis.
And no one's found a better use yet
for lemon-scented moist towelettes.
K.C. shows us who the boss is,
with make-you-slap-your-mama sauces.
That soft white bread they use for soppin'
tends to send our pulse rate hoppin'.
In Austin, W. used to risk it,
sneaking out for fat beef brisket.
It causes paunches, even zits,
but we must preserve those Texas pits.
And back east in both Carolinas,
they chop their pork up very fine. Ahhh!
They'll douse it with some vinegar, too,
and serve it up with Brunswick stew.
("Oh no. I can't. I really shouldn't. Eat no more banana puddin.")
So we pay our bill, and the best part's when,
they give us change back from a ten.
Afterwards we pick our teeth
and thumb our nose at the diet police.
That's Ameri-cue.