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Bacon

  You're salty and greasy and smoky as sin
    But of all grub we love you the best.
  You stuck to us closer than nighest of kin
    And helped us win out in the West,
  You froze with us up on the Laramie trail;
    You sweat with us down at Tucson;
  When Injun was painted and white man was pale
  You nerved us to grip our last chance by the tail
    And load up our Colts and hang on.

  You've sizzled by mountain and mesa and plain
    Over campfires of sagebrush and oak;
  The breezes that blow from the Platte to the main
    Have carried your savory smoke.
  You're friendly to miner or puncher or priest;
    You're as good in December as May;
  You always came in when the fresh meat had ceased
  And the rough course of empire to westward was greased
    By the bacon we fried on the way.

  We've said that you weren't fit for white men to eat
    And your virtues we often forget.
  We've called you by names that I darsn't repeat,
    But we love you and swear by you yet.
  Here's to you, old bacon, fat, lean streak and rin',
    All the westerners join in the toast,
  From mesquite and yucca to sagebrush and pine,
  From Canada down to the Mexican Line,
    From Omaha out to the coast!

Poem by Badger Clark
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