Oh, the hot dogs you will eat, when you’re grown, and responsible, and should eat less meat.
Saying goodbye to mustard, and ketchup, and such
When you appetites whisper from the bowels of your soul, and you use Brussel Sprouts as a crutch.
Oh, the hot dogs you will eat, when you’re older, and wiser by far.
Leaving behind indiscretions of youth, like chili, and peppers so sweet.
When your innards scream from your phantom gallbladder, and consume high fiber too much.
Oh, the hot dogs you will eat, when you’re dead, and buried for good.
When the shortest line in Heaven, for sure, is the one serving bratwurst and beer.
Where your reflux has become a thing of the past, and the last thing in mind is diet, and fitness, and such.
Oh, the hot dogs you will eat, when you’ve shown that you don’t give a shit.
That you show no remorse, which gives rise in others, deep-seated unnatural fear.
Because crap’s what you write when you’re on a deadline, an excuse you use in the clutch.
© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday