Mike majored in belligerence and minored in hate,
and took a course in loathing from a girl he used to date.
He then went on to grad school to study poverty and sin
but he didn’t want to finish, ’cause he’d have to work again.
So he walked across Nepal, got hooked up with the Buddha,
and started making cheeses, his specialty was Gouda.
He went back home to Texas; for milk he stole some cattle,
but the Rangers caught up with him, and thus began the battle.
His land of milk and honey turned sour like bad curd;
you don’t go fighting Rangers, at least that’s what I’ve heard.
The girl who taught him loathing offered her assistance;
she’d always dreamed about it, joining the resistance.
They made their stand in Plainview, at an old convenience store,
shooting cheeseballs at the Rangers, giving them what for.
But the lawmen were not playing, they used rifles filled with lead,
In no time flat the two of them were wounded, hurt, near dead.
But along came a friendly rancher, who also dealt in meth.
He helped fight off the Rangers and saved those two from death.
He drove them both to Lubbock, in his King Ranch pickup truck
but just as luck would have it, they soon ran out of luck.
A drunken Texas Ranger, speeding in his brand new Prius,
ran a light and Mike hollered, “he doesn’t even see us!”
Metal, glass, and Gouda were littered on the road,
as a semi filled with oilfield pipe lost its entire load.
The moral to this story is that meth and cheese don’t pay.
So finish up at grad school, listen to what I say.
Better still, don’t go to college, just earn a little cash.
Even poverty is better than wrecks and gouda hash.