Baxter Black: The Squeeze Chute
On the Edge of Common Sense
The sun shone dull on its metal bars.
The snow lay drifted against her frame.
Behind the barn near the rusting cars
She’s ended up all crippled and lame.
An ol’ squeeze chute I’d opened and closed
On a hundred thousand heads and horns
Dragged to the bone yard to decompose
Forgotten rose in a bed of thorns.
I lay a hand on the frozen steel,
The head bar polished as smooth as glass.
The mem’ries flowed and the past revealed
Itself like magic. I knew at last.
Why, through the years of sweat and toil.
Despite the urge to romanticize,
I hated it just like a boil
That throbbed like the Starship Enterprise!
Its dinosaurial devious brain
Laying in wait for liver and loin
Slipped a ratchet and jiggled a chain
Then rendered me a blow to the groin!
It came to collect its pound of flesh.
A finger here, there, a piece of shin.
The aching ribs, recalling a’fresh
A gleeful, scything crack to the chin!
Hot forged in hell by the River Styx.
It’s what they’d make if devils could weld!
They say machinery and cows don’t mix
And that truth has never been dispelled,
But maybe I’m being too unkind.
There’s some that says she deserves a crown
And, in fairness I could be inclined,
As final tribute, to melt her down
And mold her into a plumber’s snake.
A generous way to salute’r.
And pay her homage, for ol’ time’s sake
Everytime I called Roto Rooter!