An haute cowpoke’s high cuisine on the barbie, thin filet;
Capon-like he’s digested, making a bitchin’ buffet.
It ain’t for lunch I want to shove some sliced cow in my maw.
A sauerbraten’s not that nice—it’s lousy chow to chaw.

A man grilled on the fire makes a hooves-less kind of meal.
I abjure the dam kine and their damn kindred known as veal.
A spitted spear goes through him; there’s a luncheon soon of guy;
I’ll get me a biteful, moniker I’ll give will be “shepherd pie.”

Vittles I roast,
Vittles I baste,
Roast guys, delish as pie.

My face was gaunt until I turned to toasting human flesh;
First time I tried this treat—got GERD; I’ve adapted I guess.
If no yen to fry a fella—turn that range way up to “high.”
The horno’s* full of fire, and my dining time is nigh.

He’s expyred, [sic] but I’ll toast him, so then I call out his name. . .
The least I can do post-roast-him. . .delicious right off the flame.
This cowboy’s now a chowboy—it’s a dish some can’t abide—
It tastes just like a clucking bird, not finned things in the tide.

Vittles I roast,
Chicken I taste—
Roast guys, a dish to try,
Roast guys, not fish to fry!


*oven