The Legend of Three Toed Bob
Bob ran the old chuck wagon
For the guys out on the trail
He cooked all day while they were away
And roped them back in with the smell.
Now, the boys, they all knew better
Than to inquire of Bob 'bout the fare
Cause Bob was a high strung and sensitive Yankee
And he sizzled and stewed with such care.
One hot day Ole Daniel, the trail boss
Dared to embarrass Bob 'fore the bunch
And the very next day he was munching on hay
And had cactus and scorpion for lunch.
Stew was Bob's big specialty
Stew and a strange kind of bread
The men quietly ate and they all cleaned their plates
Though the grub, it went down just like lead.
Out on the drives, you're not picky
You eat what you get to survive
Bacon and beans and a soup full of strings
A pot roast made of stuff still alive.
Now Bob was a curious feller
Talked 'northern he did with no slang
He tried to rope steers after two or three beers
But of the sport, he could not get the hang.
Well, they say he was a butcher back east there
But was fired from each job that he found
Nearsighted, near blind, he'd leave pieces behind
Of his fingers and thumbs on the ground.
He couldn't cut meat too good with no digits
Though the Lord knows he tried hard to do it
He was forced to hold steaks with his toe then
And one day he, well, he cut right through it.
By the time he was fired, he had only three left
So he thought a career change was due
He hired himself out with a crew heading west
And now I'm singing his tale to you.
"Oh, Bob, oh, Bob, the three toed Yankee cook
Your stew is a legend and myth
We all love you so but what we wants to know
Is what do you hold your stew pots with??"