You can hear this at YouTube (although my transcription was made from Spotify).


TALKIN' VETERINARIAN BLUES
As sung by Corb Lund on "Losin' Lately Gambler" (2009)

This is the talkin' veterinarian
Preg-test caesarian
Section vaccination gun blues,
Take one.

Well, my daddy's a vet and if I's one too,
The one thing he always taught me to do
Was get paid.
Cash money.
See, jam an' eggs is a kind enough thank-you,
But not for the bookkeeper, not for the banker.
The margin's thin on treatin' large animals
Unless they're pure bred or, more understandable,
A racehorse o' some kind.
You see, son, city folks pay a high dollar
To make sure Fido ain't hot under his collar.
That's where the money is:
Boutique animal hospitals,
Shoppin' malls,
Cocker spaniels,
Pomeranians.
Hang your shingle!

There's a blind old woman brings in a bird
With a busted wing, and somewhere she heard
We was good doctors.
That night it died in the cage under our care,
Of unknown cause, but we'll make it square.
These things happen.
Only one cure, though:
Quick trip to the pet store.

Well, mornin' come; I didn't want to upset her.
For her own good I didn't see a need to tell her.
"Not only you boys have fixed his wing,
But it 'pears as though you taught him to sing!
You are good doctors!
He ain't never sung before.
Had him for years."

When you've been in the business as long as I have,
You begin to consider the plight o' the calves:
Fun-lovin, frolickin', carefree little critters.
Well, the first few months ain't all that bad.
They never forget the good times they had,
But then comes fall, and brandin' time,
Stuck in the ribs with a red-hot iron,
Tag in the ear, shots in the hip,
The dehorn paste, the snip-snip-snip.
Welcome to the world, little buddy!
It's no picnic.
Yeah, hand me that scalpel.

I've treated my share o' sugar-beet chokes.
If it gets too bad you got to cut the throat,
Salvage the carcase,
Dress 'im out on the spot.
This one old steer, he choked real bad
In the corner of the pen; he's mighty mad.
I poked at the beet; it wouldn't dislodge.
The farmer says: "I got a dull knife back at the garage."
I say: "Go get it. Gotta save the meat."
I managed a jugular cut; the steer jumped to his feet.
He shook his head and coughed up the beet,
Stood there and bled to death in front of his owner.
"Thank ye, doc.
What do I—owe ya?"

Well that's how it goes with the sugar-beet jokes.
Just don't get me started on—alfalfa bloats.