A creature’s hit, then a score.
The creature’s skinned—meat galore!

Some people like to eat
what they find on the street,
not what they’d buy at the grocery store
(don’t want what’s sold at the store).
They like their food that way,
’cause they don’t have to pay.
They find great things on the asphalt floor.

You’ll find them on Bobby’s grill,
frying on Bobby’s grill.
There, there is no store-bought fricassee.
Such treats are on Bobby’s grill…
good eats from Bobby’s grill.
But some folks might bitch, “That sickens me!”

Down rural roads he roams
for grub to roast at home,
such as hindquarters of an elk
(underneath it the flames roar).
He calls it “Elk Flambé”;
he puts a wealth away…
puts the leftovers on a fridge shelf.

There’s a lot on Bobby’s grill;
it’s hot on Bobby’s grill,
where he can cook a croaked chicken free.
It sizzles on Bobby’s grill…
lifts it off hot-feed grill.
Sweet thoughts of such hot treats quicken me;
I’ll go a a finger-lickin’ spree.

I wanna eat auto-killed
possum from Bobby’s grill.