Written to commemorate the occasion, in June 1995, when we drove through some nasty chicken by-products, inadvertently spilled on an Ohio highway by a farm truck

Near a town by the name of Shallot
Where our tires hit a stinky, slick spot
On that hot day in June
Just a little past noon
'Twas chicken guts, starting to rot!

As we started to slip and to slide
Losing what was left of our pride
We caught the strong scent
But didn't know what it meant
Then, "It's chicken guts!" somebody cried.

Someone else answered, "You must be nuts!
We just couldn't have smashed chicken guts!
They're not allowed in the road...
'Specially not such a load!
What are you, some kind of putz?"

'Twas true, though, to our disgust!
To find a carwash -- fast -- was a must.
The dripping guts stuck like glue
And there weren't just a few...
So, down the road we fumed and fussed!

The carwash had three busy lanes
Where entrails were blocking the drains.
We washed the car twice
Until it smelled nice
So, this subject has no more refrains.