A Melting Pot

by Jesse Coghill
Farmer poet from Jordan

The Irish like their churches, their cattle, sheep, and pigs.
They like their fiddle music and they like their reels and jigs.
They're a stompin' and a steppin' as they whirl and turn and cross,
And when they're not out on the floor, they're a nippin' on the sauce.

The Germans, on the other hand, like to parade around and yell,
The way they carry on you'd think they're headin' straight for hell.
They're makin' such a racket that you can scarcely hear.
They're shoutin' orders back and forth and swillin' down the beer.
It takes a lot of energy to go out on the march
And so they'll eat 'most anything that's loaded down with starch.

Now if the Czechs are on your list, you'll see they have an oddball quirk;
Though they are quite industrious, they would rather dance than work.
They have a passion for old music, for the polkas and the waltz.
Their spirit in this regard overrides their other faults.
Their choice of food is basic -- potatoes when they dine,
With bread and meat and veggies and chugs of bargain wine.

Now there is good and there is bad
In every earthly race,
And you know where a man is from
By the look upon his face.
But here in America,
This great big melting pot,
A man might have a Scottish name,
Yet a Scotsman he is not.
His mother may be Swedish
And his father half a Pole,
And though his Scottish blood is thin,
He's a Scotsman in his soul.