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Went down to Pensacola for the Fourth of July.

It was muggy and sweaty and hot but Tater's throat was dry.

Went in to get a beer but somethin caught his eye...

guess is was pie, yes it was pie, Tater got pie!



Tater's puttin on a little weight, it's hard to deny.

Have gonna go on some kinda diet, and that's no lie.

If you cut back on beer and bacon you might as well die,

less you got pie, gotta have pie, some kinda pie.



Now the gals always sayin fat goes right to their thighs.

So the French they invented quiche, and the rule don't apply.

So even if you're over in France, down to Versailles,

you can a tart, she can have quiche, but they is both pie.



Well, the diet weren't workin out, it never did fly.

Just a salad and hard boiled eggs is hard to abide.

Tater loves his beans and ham and the catfish fry,

and Tater needs pie, Tater needs pie, he gotta have pie!



So he went to the Country Kitchen to get him some pie.

Pecan and French meringue bout six inches high.

Had two or three more pieces, then he died,

because he had pie, because he had pie, because he had pie.