There’s a smell about good chili
    That no poet can portray;
It wafts a rare aroma
    Where gentle breezes play;
And of all exotic odors
    That the wings of time anoint,
There’s none can match description
    With Bob Sears’ Chili Joint.

Now, it wasn’t much to look at,
    Just a hole there in the wall,
No sign above the entrance
    And no fancy front atall.
A stranger couldn’t find it
    ‘Less the wind was blowin’ right;
Then he couldn’t hardly miss it,
    Even on the darkest night.

A dime would buy a bowl full
    Of that wondrous bill-o-fare;
A quarter got a milk shake
    And another bowl to spare.
It wasn’t always fresh and clean
    By sanitation’s letter,
But somehow it improved with age
    And day by day got better.

I’ve eaten Antoine’s Crepe Suzettes,
    A joy beyond compare;
I’ve dined at old Delmonico’s,
   Where famed gourmets repair;
But no Chef has ever challenged
    The high gastronomic point
That was mine, in early childhood
    In Bob Sears’ Chili Joint.


From That Spotted Sow: and Other Hill country Ballads (Steck Co. 1949).
This poem is in the public domain.