Bubba’s Got the Mop

by Baxter B. B. Chicken

• The outlook wasn’t hopeful,
• for Baxter’s team that day,
• His ribs were dry, his brisket charred,
• with one more bird to spray.
• And then when one Judge gave a six,
• and one other did the same,
• A darkened silence fell on the team,
• who’d sadly share the blame.
• A few got up and choked good-bye;
• our Carolyn stayed and prayed.
• They knew Bubba had entered chicken,
• he’d win a prize for that.
• For sure he’ll come out a winner,
• with a ribbon for his hat.
• But the Baron had won brisket,
• a victory far from small.
• And Ol’ Willingham said he’d be surprised,
• to see Bubba win at all.
• And when the smoke had lifted,
• and all saw what occurred,
• here was Ardie with a second,
• while Smokey grabbed a third.
• Then from the grilled assemblage,
• there rose a hearty yell;
• it rumbled through the stockyards,
• it really sounded swell,
• it bounced off KC stadium,
• and off the Stockyard top,
• for Bubba, sweaty Bubba,
• was picking up the mop.
• There was style in Bubba’s manner
• as he stepped up to the grill,
• he had a regal bearing
• and a smile remembered still.
• And then he fast responded
• by raising up his gimmie hat,
• the hungry folks around there
• saw our Bubba grease his rack.
• A thousand Judges watched him as he rubbed away the dirt,
• Four hundred of them with sauce spilled
• up and down their judges shirts.
• Then while his rivals rubbed their rubs,
• and stirred up yet more dips,
• the challenge burned in Bubba’s eyes,
• a snarl spread ‘cross his lips.
• And now the beer-butt chicken,
• came outta the hot air,
• he smiled and quickly carved it
• with tender loving care.
• “Too salty” said one virgin Judge.
• While from the crowd who waited,
• there came an anguished roar,
• like the sound of Oscar losers,
• as they creep on out the door.
• “Grill him! Grill that first-timer!”
• yelled someone from the stands,
• and it’s certain they’d have grilled him
• had not Bubba raised his hands.
• He glanced over at the Judges,
• one dressed in baby blue,
• but Bubba just ignored her,
• as she mumbled, “hard to chew.”
• “It’s tender,” cried his sponsors,
• and others called out “Jerk!”
• But one gentle look from Bubba,
• sent the Judges go back to work.
• The team saw his brow get furrowed,
• they saw his shirt get stained,
• and they all knew now for certain,
• he’d be Royal Champ again.
• The frown has gone from Bubba’s lips,
• he knows it’s not too late,
• He sprays the bird with practiced hands,
• fair Kathy wipes the plate.
• And now the bird is on the green,
• with clear juices pouring fro,
• but the Judges are all heaving,
• It’s not a pretty show.
• Oh somewhere in this flavored land
• the chicken tastes “jest right.”
• Ferlin Husky’s playing somewhere,
• and somewhere gas grills light.
• And somewhere smokers bellow,
• and hungry eaters shout,
• But there is no joy for Bubba,
• his beer-butt chicken has lost out.

In tribute to Carolyn Wells, Paul Kirk, Ardie Davis, Smokey Hale and John Willingham, true giants of barbecue lore, and with humble apologies to Ernest L. Thayer’s Casey at the Bat.