On a Sunday in August, in the year of 84                                                                              there took place an event, we were all waiting for.

On the bank of Old River, in a quaint little inn,                                                                         a momentous occasion was about to begin.

The participants, all, were a great rowdy bunch,                                                                   who brought in their crawdads to race, not for lunch.

From the San Joaquin Valley came old river rats,                                                                     to race their crawdads, instead of fishing for cats.

There were spirits of endurance, claiming races too,                                                                 to determine the winners, who would go home with the blue.

These races, while fun, were not the whole reason,                                                                   to gather together in this hot summer season.

A momentous event, was today to take place,                                                                       "The Heinbockel – Mossdale Championship Race".

The challenge was extended, with grace and good will,                                                            by the Heinbockel group – they were out for a kill!

So Mossdale accepted, with some trepidation,                                                                       and agreed to take part in this sporting occasion.

The gamblers were ready and primed with good cheer,                                                        their training had consisted of bull-shit and beer.

Though the real challenge here, was to win or to lose,                                                              it seemed more like a party, with dancing and booze!

The "Mossdale Mauler" trained on tequila and gin,                                                            looked fit as a fiddle, ready to win.

The Mosdale Marina, and it’s whole motley crew,                                                              would have it’s blue ribbon – or it’s crawdad stew!

"The Heinbockel Howler", fed on ground squirrels and beer,                                                 was physically ready, though sexually queer.

The arena was hushed no in rapt anticipation,                                                                      you could hear a small pin drop, of a short flatulation.

The gamblers were crowded, like flies on a cow,                                                                 ‘round the ring of contention, it was nearly time now.

The bucket was raised and the cheers roared like thunder,                                                        but the crawdads just sat there, in amazement and wonder.

"Who are these dummies? Just look at that crew",                                                                said the crawdads together, in a language they knew.

"They lure us and bait us right into their trap,                                                                          to hell with that nonsense – to us it’s all crap!"

So the mighty ‘dads rested, and dozed in the sun,                                                              while the gamblers all waited – for those bastards to run!

The gamblers got weary – some even drifted away,                                                               they couldn’t believe how they’d wasted this day.

So the race of the century ended up in a draw,                                                                        not a crawdad was moving – not even a claw.

The moral involved here, as you all are aware,                                                                           is that crawdads don’t love you – they don’t even care.

They’ll entice you and lure you, like a comely young lass,                                                   then just when you need them they'll say "kiss my ass!"

 

By Dick Varian

August 5, 1984