From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 52-53.
THE COUNTY FAIR
This is the time when everywhere
Men drag the flivver from its lair
And hustle to the county fair.
I love the life upon the grounds,
The shoot the shoots and whirl arounds;
I love the harrows, plows and diskers,
The old-time farmer with his whiskers.
I love the thing-ma-jig that whirls
The fellows and their buxom girls.
I love the fair where time is spent
In such diversions innocent,
But darn the modern crude and coarse place,
Made up of side shows and a horse race.
O on our farms are Plymouth Rocks,
Both handsome hens and lusty cocks.
We ought to show those charming chickens,
Not human ones that raise the dickens.
We need more Dominicks and Dorkings
Instead of birds that roll their stockings.
Our youths should watch more Morgan prancers
And fewer hella hula dancers.
The Jersey cows and other cudders,
The Holsteins with their well-filled udders,
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The cattle from a thousand hills,
Are wholesome sights for Jacks and Jills
And give us all the needed thrills.
Those poor, forsaken, homeless drifters,
The refuse of our human sifters,
No more should be allowed to show
As missing links from Borneo.
The folks who pay to see those ginks,
They are themselves the missing links.
Come let us rise and bust the snide shows,
The gambling nuisances and side shows.
Though graft and bribing may entrench,
From their old places let us wrench
The things that make our fairs a stench;
Cut out the sights that harm our kiddies
And fill the space with boars and biddies.
Our fairs with good kine should be full,
With more of bulls and less of bull.