Comes all the way from Austin, Texas, where Benjamin Westney is studying to get his License to Kill with the Cello.
Tiger, Tiper, Tiple, Taple.
Saple, Sapple, Scapple, Scrapple.
Would we giggle if we heard
that Scrapple Woods just needs this ‘bird’
to win the U.S. Open Major Title?
Would little girls read "Scrapple Beat"
to gaze at glossy pics replete
with hunky studs from teenie-bopper movies?
And what of movies on the screen?
Would "Crouching Scrapple…" still be seen
by everybody five times in the theater?
Would Siegfried still have prayed for Roy
when he became a scrapple toy?
I tell you, friends, it doesn’t really matter.
For scrapples are a fearsome bunch,
who’d just as soon have us for lunch
than ponder on the meaning of their label.
It’s best for us to do the same,
and worry not about the name
of nature’s stalking, killing, striped creatures!