POST-MODERN BLUES
© Greg Keeler 1988

Ryegate Testicle Festival

It's Ryegate, Montana's Testicle Festival time
Where you can pig out on calf nuts for hours and it don't cost a dime.
There's artists and ranchers and drunk two-step dancers
And grannies who've just reached their prime
At Ryegate, Montana's Testicle Festival time.
Now that Hutterite up at the bar,
He's had too much liquor by far,
But he swears he can sober up quicker than most folks might think.
He'll just buttress his gut walls with batter fried calf balls
Then barf 'em up back in the sink.
Hell, barfin's no sin. It's a good second wind for more drinks.

At Ryegate, Montana's Testicle Festival time,
Where you can pig out on calf nut for hours and it don't cost a dime.
For a testicle filling, turn north out of Billings
Then west till you reach the sublime,
Ryegate, Montana's Testicle Festival time.
Now some of you tourists might think
That a meal of calf testes would stink,
But I beg to differ. Those buggers taste great with a drink.
They're just as finger lickin's TV dinner chicken,
A little bit heavy on dough,
But just pop 'em with Schnapp's and they're better than French escargot.

At Ryegate, Montana's Testicle Festival time,
Where you can pig out on calf nuts for hours and it don't cost a dime.
For a fried gonad party, just turn in at Marty's,
Hell, its more than this poet can rhyme.
It's Ryegate, Montana's Testicle Festival time.
Yes, it's more than maniacally, aphrodesiacally, gustily, lustfully fine.
It's Ryegate, Montana's Testicle Festival time.