There’s a legend going `round about a demon rig, set up for barbecue, And there’s nothing on the road can match its size or out-perform its crew. With thirty grills and a two-ton reefer that can hold nine-dozen pig. And a supercharged motor from an ocean liner, that’s the Demon Barbecue Rig.
It’s said her chassis was forged in Hell from twisted train wreck rails. Weighin’ over ten-thousand pounds when rolled up on the scales. Sportin’ thirty four monster truck tires, all duallies `cept two you steer. That can climb up Mount Olympus, when she’s throttled up in granny gear.
The cab was a big steel warehouse before it sat up high and proud, The exhaust pipe’s ex-Space Shuttle and twenty times as loud. She’s got a forty-thousand gallon propane tank made of stainless-steel, And when you fire all ninety burners up, you can hear those bad boys squeal.
She’s been clocked at under seven flat, in the standing quarter mile. And it handles like a Ferrari that would make old Enzo smile. But what happened Competition Day will chill you to the bone, When a thousand folk ate their fill - and never made it home.
It was a warm, full-moon Friday, the thirty-second of July, And a two minutes after midnight, rainclouds filled the sky. The teams set up their grills and stands, there was no time to rest, For at daybreak they would light their fires, to see which one was best.
The Demon Rig parked down the road, locked up and all alone, Beside a grove of dogwood trees, where one old crow had flown. It sat there as the day wore on, and the Master Chef was crowned, The people partied hard and late, `til they heard a mournful sound.
At first, a low, deep groaning, like a twisting wooden beam, Then the roar of tortured laughter and a wicked banshee scream. The ground shook like an earthquake, as the rig began to glow, And it spewed out its equipment, all set up and set to go.
With every eye upon it, men heard their women cry, As a hundred disembodied souls flew up into the sky. They settled down at their stations, working all the grills and smokers, Searing meat in clouds of infernal steam, with pitchforks, pikes and pokers.
At first, the people ran away from what they knew was Hell. But one-by-one each wandered back, attracted by the smell. It was quite unlike worldly barbecue, the fruit of spice and coals, What they sniffed was something more than that - it satisfied their souls.
When curiosity grew too strong, they felt an urgent need, And what might have been a friendly taste, turned to mindless greed. They scrambled to the Demon Rig, a few prepared to die, For a mouthful of that Demon Q, ‘til folks were piled high.
Good men brawled and women screeched, the babies yelled and swore, The mob took over all of them, their clothes sauce-stained and tore. Then in a flash of oil-flare light the Demon Rig simply… vanished. Taking with it every greedy soul, sent down where such are banished.
Every now and again, you’ll hear trucker, white as milk or maybe paler, As he trembles out his story, `bout out-runnin’ that tractor-trailer. So keep in mind the Demon Rig and the lesson it imparts, Folks, it’s fine to grill up ribs and steaks, but keep kindness in your hearts.