(Lyrics by Harold A. Pickett; music by Scott Ryan)
Though I aim to be discreet,
I must admit I live to eat,
And I ain't found, in all these years,
Nothin' better'n roas'n' ears.
Steamin' hot, piled on a plate,
I might eat six, or maybe eight,
Or even more if I really tried
And was a little on the hungry side!
You can't be fancy when you're eatin'
Roas'n' ears, you can't be neat, an'
People who enjoy 'em most
Pay no mind to Em'ly Post.
If you can't afford the high-priced spread,
Jist smear on oleo instead,
An' then cut loose an' wade right in
With grease a-drippin' off your chin.
Ever' six or seven rows
Pause a bit, an' wipe your nose,
Take a breath of air, an' then
Grab a-holt an' go again!
If your lowers tend to skid,
Put 'em in your pocket, kid;
You may not do a fancy job,
But you can gum it off the cob!
Slide that roas'n' ear to and fro,
Slowly rotate as you go;
When one is gone, pick up another—
That's what I call eatin', brother!
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