The Fleecing Of Chucky B

There are strange things done ‘neath the midnight sun
By those who would steal your gold
And the Whitehorse cops with their traffic stops
Make a tourist’s blood run cold
The northern lights have seen queer sights
But the queerest they ever did see
Was the tourist trap at Fourth and Black
And the fleecing of Chucky Bee

Now Chucky Bee was from “Big T” 
Down along the Rio Grande
Where the bluebonnets grow, the longhorns low
And oil rigs dot the land
But he headed north on April fourth and left the USA
On a rutted road with a heavy load
Five hundred miles per day
 
The Alaska trail makes grown men wail
And women quake with grief
But Whitehorse town is well renowned
As a place to gain relief
So Chucky Bee, far from “Big T”
Road weary at day’s end
With Jeep in tow left the traffic flow
For this town at the river’s bend

At City Hall they made a call
To request an overview
Of things to see, both paid and free
And were shown just what to do
They drove away on that fateful day
So glad they had made this stop
But their joyful bliss received Death’s kiss
In the form of a traffic cop
 
On a rain-slick road like a yellow toad
He hopped in front of the Jeep
And with outstretched paw and gaping maw
Pulled Chucky from the street
Neither wife nor he, though from “Big T”
Ever witnessed such a sight
And thought this man with the outstretched hand
Was some how not quite right

Soon Constable Mayes with eyes half crazed
Withdrew his ticket book
And his pen did race at a frantic pace
Beneath his frenzied look
The pages flew as the charges grew
'Til laws were all expended
With a happy look and an empty book
His mission here had ended

Now a ticket made is a fine unpaid
And tourists are easy prey
For the greedy men who with pad and pen
Would steal their gold away
But Chucky Bee like all from “Big T”
Lives by the law of the feud
And will react to any attack
From those who are downright rude

So just to spite he decided to write
Of his treatment in Whitehorse town
How the local cops with their traffic stops
Fleece the touring crowd
They’ll steal the gold of young and old
With a smile upon their face
And so I say, “Stay away! Stay away!“
From this dreadful desolate place

There are strange things done ‘neath the midnight sun
By those who would steal your gold
And the Whitehorse cops with their traffic stops
Make a tourist’s blood run cold
The northern lights have seen queer sights
But the queerest they ever did see
Was the tourist trap at Fourth and Black
And the fleecing of Chucky Bee