College of Veterinary Medicine

News from the College of Veterinary Medicine

Willie Nelson's Chili Cook-off & Poetry Contest 2010


Each year the College of Veterinary Medicine holds a chili cook-off in honor of Willie Nelson's Birthday. This year also marked the second annual poetry contest. 

For more details and photos

  Photo by Tim Marsh, WSU Today
 

Chili Winners

First Place Casey Peterson Shotgun White Chili
Second Place Ron McFarland Ron's Finest Green Pork Chili
Third Place John Mattoon Union Flat Pua'a Chili


Poetry Winners

First Place


Pigs Can't Swim and Pigs Can't Fly
by Clive Gay

No pigs can't swim and pigs can't fly
But pigs can see the wind go by
And pigs make lovely household friends
When winter comes and summer ends.

To find this friend you will first meet
upon a whim, when he is small and sweet
and then he'll draw you with his call
of oinks and squeals, for which you'll fall

With time, his intellect will be so plain
That you will marvel at his brain
He'll answer to your voiced command
and play with you on your demand

He'll join you on your daily chores
And you will find him truly yours
You'll find your time and his conjoined
And other aspects of your life purloined

But pigs do eat and with time's flow
Your winter household friend will grow
He'll likely reach a massive size
And hence some problems will arise

You'll light a fire, the cold to meet
He'll hog the hearth and get the heat
He'll climb around and break your chairs
He'll chew the carpet off your stairs

His jaws will be a massive sight,
With gaping mouth and teeth all bright
He'll send your neighbors off in fright
To have bad dreams throughout the night.

He'll travel with you in your car
On trips to shops, or to the bar
This sight will cause some eyes to pop
When you are at a traffic stop

In fact, a gentle sole will be
your winter household friend, and he
will talk with “oinks” to you,
when he receives your verbal cue

In time, his size will cause concern
and lead to thoughts of ways of term
-ination of this bond, but yet his size alone
cannot a purpose-end atone.

Yes, pigs cant fly and they cant swim
But when some person, on a whim
Decides to keep one for a friend
 
 

Second Place


Don't Trust Horses that Read
by Bob Mealey

The pack mules seemed happy,
their saddles fit right;
the day almost done,
their loads were all light.

We were on our way home,
on the trip's seventh day;
from the Wyoming mountains,
and I needed the pay.

For I was a vet student,
and money was rare;
second year would start soon,
and my checkbook was bare.

Forty dollars a day
was my backcountry wage,
to lead New York tourists
through timber and sage.

A summer dude wrangler was I,
and the hands called me Doc;
even though my degree
was far from a lock.

Oh I had got good
at sewing up a cut,
and bandaging legs,
and giving shots in the butt.

But nothing could ever
prepare me indeed,
for the day I found out
that my cayuse could read.

Now vet school fosters
critical thought;
evidence-based medicine
and science are taught.

And as best I remember
it never was said,
that a horse knew the alphabet
or that one had read.

But listen to me now
and believe me I plead;
my Wyoming cow horse
knew how to read.

He stood sixteen hands;
his age about ten,
and he came off the range,
from the BLM.

A government wild horse
is how he was born,
before he was captured
and branded and shorn.

At first he was broncy;
but soon was well liked,
and the ranch kept him on,
and the boss named him Ike.

His namesake, now,
in case you are stuck,
is a rodeo contractor;
our wild horse could buck.

But over the years
he became a good horse,
very reliable,
considering his source.

And now he was mine,
for the summer at least;
and we were almost home,
and for this we were pleased.

It had been a long trip,
and people were tired;
cold beer and a shower
is what we desired.

The day had been hot
and the trail had been tough;
ten miles of switchbacks
and two more to the truck.

Twelve mules, eight horses,
five guests and three hands;
that was our entourage;
we made quite a band.

The last stretch of trail
was dusty and flat;
not much to see,
so I turned to chat

with the wrangler behind me;
a cowboy named Ross,
and I remained unaware
of impending chaos.

At a bend in the trail
Ike began his revolt;
I lost my pack string
as he started to bolt.

Through sagebrush and prickly pear
we tore at dead run,
until he remembered
that bucking was fun.

Now I'm no bronc rider,
and before you could count,
I was piled on the ground;
an embarrassing dismount.

The mules were all scattered,
their pigtails all broke;
And Ross was just laughing
at my college boy choke.

The guests just stood gawking
not sure what to do,
while I spit up the dust
and started to come to.

As to what set Ike off
I started to ponder,
He was nowhere around;
had run off way yonder.

But lo and behold
I found by the trail,
a bright red painted box,
and a shovel and pail.

Left there behind
by some maintenance crew,
knowing not of the carnage
their oversight would do.

For on the bright painted box
in letters of white,
was there in all caps;
the word "DYNAMITE".

Upon seeing the box
and its bright red complexion,
I stopped for a moment
of quiet reflection.

"Give this a wide berth"
I suggested to Ross;
"No need for more trouble
with another spooked hoss."

But of course he ignored me
and rode right beside it;
his horse didn't care;
did not get excited.

We both scratched our heads
at what we had seen,
"Ike just got spooked,"
I finally gleaned.

But Ross kept on thinking,
and that word on the box
resulted in a
different hypothesis.

"Spooked hell!" Ross replied
as he began to draw near,
"Your horse can READ,
he knew to get clear!"

The revelation was sound,
we knew it was true;
so we gathered the mules,
and finally Ike too.

We all made it home,
a bit tired and sore;
but a couple days later
we were back out for more.

But a few things were different
between me and Ike;
I avoided scary words,
and he acted right.

Now I can't help but smile
thinking back on those days,
of mules and mountains
and Ike's quirky ways.

But remember my words
as you step on your steed,
don't trust him a second
if he knows how to read!

Third Place


If you've got a baby, I've got the arm
by Ben Werkhoven

(inspired by Willie Nelson's “If you've got the money, I've got the time”)

If you've got a baby Bessie, I've got the arm
I'll come palpating and I won't do no harm
See you in the mornin' I'm settin' my alarm
If you've got a baby Bessie, I've got the arm

Never have we let down watchin' you for heat
Inseminating I'm sure gametes did meet
Now it's up to you babe, I've got no more charm
If you've got a baby Bessie, I've got the arm

When I see your backside I know what to do
I'll be grasping for your cervix, hoping it ain't grew
Then I'll reach the horns and work my way on down
Moving up each in turn I won't fool around

And if you've got a baby Bessie, I won't play dumb
When I feel that membrane slip and bump under my thumb
I'll call you pregnant, I'll sing throughout the land
If you've got a baby Bessie, I've got the hand
2009 Poetry Winners
Last Edited: Apr 30, 2012 3:33 PM   

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