. . . damned if it ain’t the greasiest damn thing, piled up with fried goods for a gatherin’.
So I notice a distinct paucity of the called-for poetry regarding lard from my native region (though why we should be the ones to wax artistic about such a thing I would really like to know – consequently, I turned up lard poetry by everyone except southerners). So here’s what I’ve got – two bits of nonsense and some High (Greasy) Art:
MORNIN’ BUSINESS
By Lee Henry
Rattlin’ of pans in the pre-dawn light
signals the end of a cold bitter night.
Jawin’ and gratin’ of the coffee grinders song
Says get up cowboy its near breakin’ dawn.
A grouchy ole figure with pot hook in hand
Reflects a lifetime of cookin’ with his wrinkles
and tan.
His breakfast from memory is simple to fix
It’s salt pork, coffee, sourdough and lick.
His kitchen of canvas, chuckwagon and Hanes
Prances and dances in the flickerin’ flames.
From inside the chuckbox the Cookie removes
A large sack of flour and a bottle of booze.
With his back to the bedrolls from the bottle he takes
A nip of “White Lightnin’” to ward off the snakes.
The tools of his trade, a bowl he has kept
Thru thunder and lightnin’ and rustlers he’s met.
Washed in the streams and scrubbed by the sands
His large wooden bowl he carved with his hands.
Blendin’ the lard in the fixins so neat
From the crock pours the sourdough, it’s sour but sweet.
The biscuits are cut and then to the Dutch
Are crowded together by the master’s touch.
The coals from the fire on the lid with a lip
Are hot as a Colt drawn from the hip.
The golden brown sourdoughs from his Dutch oven pan
Has filled the craw of many-a-man.
With his back to the cowboys riding over the crest
A nip he will take before attackin’ the mess.
With bottle in hand, and the marks from a quirt
As he Toasts, “Thanks Cookie” Cut in the Dirt.
(Note: this is a cowboy poem, not from the south at all, or it woulda been better.)
Lard and Kidney Beans
by Graham Parks
Lard is very fatty,
And kidney beans aren’t blue,
They don’t go well together,
When mixed up in a stew.
But when they are in private,
Far from the public’s gaze,
They love each other very much,
And go as friends on their holidays.
One year they went to Ibeza,
Cos clubbing’s their favourite thing,
And all the time while they were there,
They stayed on the dance-floors partying.
One night the lard got lucky,
And pulled a Spanish bird,
The kidney beans were jealous,
Cos this girl was lard’s third.
Kidney beans had tried to pull,
They only got near one.
But very soon she ran away,
And claimed to be a lesbian.
So the kidney beans tried thinking,
What did lard have over them?
They remembered their friend’s aftershave,
The stuff that smelt quite grim.
They hunted for the bottle,
And splashed a little on,
By the time that they were ready,
The entire lot was gone.
When they got back on the dancefloor,
With music thudding loud,
At once appeared around them,
A gorgeous female crowd.
(Same note 'ceptin this is Yankee doggerel.)
HIS CONTENT IN THE COUNTRY
by Robert Herrick, 1591-1674
HERE, Here I live with what my board
Can with the smallest cost afford;
Though ne’er so mean the viands be,
They well content my Prue and me:
Or pea or bean, or wort or beet,
Whatever comes, Content makes sweet.
Here we rejoice, because no rent
We pay for our poor tenement;
Wherein we rest, and never fear
The landlord or the usurer.
The quarter-day does ne’er affright
Our peaceful slumbers in the night:
We eat our own, and batten more,
Because we feed on no man’s score;
But pity those whose flanks grow great,
Swell’d with the lard of other’s meat.
We bless our fortunes, when we see
Our own beloved privacy;
And like our living, where we’re known
To very few, or else to none.
(Limey lard.)
