The Scrapple Song

The Scrapple Song, by Robbie Fulks

The Mom-n-Pop diners 'round Allentown
Don't really have much that a fella can hold down
And the folks up 'round Philly and Bethlehem
Ain't gourmet types, really, or chefly men
Now, they're God-fearin' folk in that Keystone State
But their food ain't fit for a collection plate
There's things for all kinds of people to hate
But there's one that everybody loves!

And they call it scrapple, scrapple
corned? and steamed? and hog-something apple?
Set by the window till it's cold and hard
Sliced up thick and fried in lard
Say, what's that swimmin' in the big brick pan
That's kickin' up all this mania?
It's scrapple, scrapple
The pride of Pennsylvania.

Well, way down yonder by the porte cochere
Billy's got his hands in Betty Sue's hair
Shakin' and a-steamin' up the Roadmaster
We can see him but we can't see her
Well, Mama's in the kitchen and she might see
"Billy, better leave your sister be!"
But he jumps from the Buick to the dining room
When he gets a whiff of that pig perfume.

It's scrapple, scrapple
Hearty as a T-bone, slippery as a tadpole
Any old part of the hog will do
Dick and the nipples and the toenails, too
Hey, what's that swimmin' in the big brick pan
That's kickin' up all this mania?
It's scrapple, scrapple
The pride of Pennsylvania.

Well, up in the pen 'neath the big shade tree
Laziest hog you ever did see
Stiff in the joints and slow in the head
That fat boy'd be better off dead
So grab your hammer and away we'll fly
To splatter his brains all 'round the sty
Then we'll be livin' in a world of dreams
Shovelin' down scrapple till we bust our jeans

It's scrapple, scrapple
Didn't bring a plate? Then grab you a hatful
Workin' in the field till the sun goes down
Grandma's whipped up 25 pounds
Hey, what's that swimming in the big brick pan
That's kickin' up all this mania?
It's scrapple, scrapple
The pride of Pennsylvania