On Broadway

So my church (Second Reformed Church) is located on a street called Broadway in Pella, IA, and a while back, someone got the clever idea to host arts and entertainment events through the church and call them "On Broadway". Throughout the year, they've hosted various musicians and speakers to come and entertain, and last night, they were gracious enough to host me in the "On Broadway: Curtain Call".

They actually hosted more than just me. The event really took place in three different locations. A quartet and a duet of singers performed in the Pastors' backyard. A showtune sing-a-long took place on the front lawn of the church. And I performed some of my poetry in the backyard of Arvin and Connie Bandstra (two members of our congregation with an amazing backyard filled with all sorts of beautiful gardens).

It was a progressive evening of entertainment - meaning - that if you bought a ticket, you would start in one of the three locations, watch a twenty minute performance by the entertainers, and then head to the next location for another performance, and then the next. So in all, each performance had to be done three separate times, for three separate audiences, which suited me just fine since I like to inflict my poems on as many people as possible.

I had a fantastic evening. Food was served at each location, and the poems went over quite well. (Although my second audience of the night seemed a little sleepy.) Everything got laughs in the appropriate places, and many wonderful folks gave me great comments after each performance. The backyard I performed in was, in my opinion, the most beautiful. The entire yard has pretty much been turned into a large series of gardens, complete with a small pond of goldfish on the patio.

The only real downfall of the evening was when a very nice lady accidnetally backed into the driver door of my car and put a pretty good dent in it. Oh well, these things happen.

And so, for you reading entertainment, I present to you the poems performed last night (minus the ones that have been previously printed on this site.) Enjoy.

The Best Day in School We Ever Had
I knew a little boy once,
Who’d eat anything you had,
He’d eat it if it tasted good,
Or if it tasted bad.

All my friends thought this was great,
So we’d give him things to chew,
It might be a handful of dirt,
Or’a jar of Elmer’s glue.

But he’d eat them and he’d smile,
He would laugh and say “You see,
You feed me anything you like,
I’m always hungry!”

One day while I was sitting,
Just in front of him one seat,
He said his stomach was grumbling,
And needed food to eat.

I was out of erasers,
And all of my glue was gone,
The only thing that I had left,
Was my box of new crayons.

I turned around with the gift,
To see if he wanted some,
He took the whole box right away,
And gobbled the first one.

Then he gobbled down the next,
Then another was his snack,
He worked his way from the white one,
Through the whole box to black.

He sat back full and content,
With a smile that widened far,
You would have thought they’d been cookies,
Or little candy bars.

And yet, ten minutes later,
During our geography,
I heard him give a little moan,
And lean up next to me.

He said he didn’t feel good,
The crayons didn’t agree,
He said he needed the bathroom,
“It’s an emergency.”

If it was that bad I said,
Then he should just raise his hand,
The teacher would then let him go,
It sounded like a plan.

But our teacher was well known,
To have been a little mean,
As he raised his hand she acted,
As if she hadn’t seen.

He said, “What do I do now?”
As I tried to read my book,
I said, “You have to say her name,
And just get her to look.”

“If she hears her name get called,
Then she’ll have to see your hand,
Then you can ask to be excused,
And she’ll have to say you can.”

He put up his hand again,
And he said her name quite loud,
She looked at him as if he’d cursed,
And gave him her best scowl.

“You don’t speak out in this class!”
Then her face went all askew,
“You don’t speak out, no not at all,
Unless I call on you!”

He whispered, “What do I do?”
And his fear began to show,
I said, “Tell her it’s serious,
She’ll have to let you go.”

He said, “Really? Is that true?”
I said, “Yeah, cause it’s a rule!
Or maybe a state law I think,
It’s binding for all schools.

We all watched him leave his desk
And walk right up next to her,
It was like she didn’t see him,
I wasn’t really sure.

He waited for two minutes,
Then he shuffled in his place,
He finally dared to say her name,
And flames shot out her face.

She screamed because he’d dare move,
And speak without her say so,
She turned and lectured the whole class,
It was almost painful.

She said, “You see, now there are rules,
I post at the first quarter,
If you cannot follow them it’s
Chaos and not order!”

“What would happen to this class,
If everyone talked at will,
Everything would just go haywire,
That’s why rules are instilled!”

Then she turned back to my friend,
Who now had started to sob,
She said, “Okay now what’d you need,
Our class time you have robbed.”

He stood up straight and said, “Ma’am,
I think I might need to go,”
But just then he threw up on her,
It looked like a rainbow.

Then she seemed to lose her mind,
And a scream came out of her,
She grabbed him and ran from the room,
It seemed like such a blur.

All twas left was just us kids,
There was this horrible smell,
And that’s what set more retching off,
As far as I could tell.

Of twenty-five kids that day,
Only one did not throw up,
And I was not the lucky one,
My stomach did erupt.

A teacher came ‘cross the hall,
To see what was the uproar,
And though she tried hard to fight it,
She threw up at the door.

Legend says that wasn’t all,
Cause then the janitor came,
And some kids still to this day say,
He fared about the same.

Yet, though through all the sickness,
Not one of the kids did pout,
No one dared complain too much cause,
We got an early out.

Stan
Once there was a man named Stan,
Who worked on a drill press,
Old Stan he was a factory man,
He’s just like all the rest.

But you’ll see that Stan is shy,
Some fingers on one hand,
And there’s a real good reason why,
Stan is a dreaming man.

When old Stan would start to drill,
His mind would just get lost,
He’d dream of some imagined thrill-
And a finger’d be the cost.

Once Stan dreamt he was a king,
His wife a gorgeous queen,
Before he’d stopped to really think,
His thumb was severed clean.

Once Stan dreamt he drove race cars,
His mind really lingered,
Before he’d even gone that far,
He’d shear ‘doff his first finger.

Once Stan dreamt he played football,
And that was kind of fun,
The referee’s gave him good calls-
Stan lost the middle one.

Once Stan dreamt he was a mime,
With quick, expressive hands-
He lost the finger fourth in line,
The one for wedding bands.

Now there’s but the pinky left,
You’d think that Stan would quit,
You’d think he’d be a tad bereft-
He doesn’t care a bit.

Now he drills with his right hand,
And even though he’s slow,
With that left pinky he still can,
Hold smokes and pick his nose.

One day Stan may lose the rest,
And then he might relax,
Until then Stan’ll be the best,
At picking out earwax.

Farm Dog
We’ve got this dog here on the farm,
Who really has a unique charm,
He’s rather nice to have with me,
When I long for some company.

The problem is he’s kind of slow,
And I’m not sure he really knows,
That when our Lord passed out dog brains,
He must have been asleep that day.

When strangers come out to my place,
The dog just stares off into space.
But if old friends are coming in,
He’ll likely try to attack them.

He’s like a goat in appetite,
He’ll eat a frog in just one bite,
I even saw him eat some nails,
Then walk away and wag his tail.

And yes, he sleeps in the driveway,
No matter what we try to say,
We have to drag him to the side,
To get our pickup truck on by.

Yet though you’ll hear me gripe and moan,
A better dog I couldn’t own,
So maybe I’ll go pet him soon,
And use the hand without bite wounds.

The Squir'l
A squir’l ran out before my car,
Ten yards or so, not all that far,
His life I knew I’d surely mar,
If I might hit him with my car.

The first thing I thought was to swerve,
I knew that if I kept my nerve,
And around the squir’l made a curve,
I might pull off a des’prate swerve.

I thought I’d drive a little right,
And hopefully change this squir’l’s plight,
But try as hard as I just might,
He also chose to then run right.

I then thought left would work you see,
Although it was much more risky,
I’d have to miss a large oak tree,
But the squir’l’s life I’d save, you see.

But I didn’t know what to do,
Cause when I went left – he did too,
And so that’s when I really knew,
This squir'l must think just like I do.

And so I just drove straight ahead,
A little prayer I quickly said,
To now not turn the pavement red,
Hoping he’d duck his little head.

I looked back in my rearview mirror,
To check out the squir’l at my rear,
And I let out a little cheer,
I saw him standing in the mirror.

He looked at me with happiness,
Though ‘twas short lived I must confess,
The car behind made him a mess,
Which sort of damped my happiness.

The Story
My wife let out a scream one day,
While I was watching some TV,
It was such a sound of trouble,
That I leapt up to my feet.

Her noise was very frightening,
And the sound put my nerves on edge,
Some mugger must have broken in,
And was holding her hostage.

The noise came out the bathroom door,
So I ran as fast as I could,
To place my body between hers,
And this doer of no good!

When I reached my destination,
I found no threat’ning outsider,
Just my wife . . . she was pointing at,
A large, brown, hairy spider.

“Kill it!” she said, as she backed up,
Of my brav’ry she was quite sure,
But what I didn’t tell her was,
That I was more scared than her.

Yet I put on my toughest face,
Like I wasn’t scared in the least,
Reached back and said, “Hand me something,
With which I can kill this beast!”

At this point she put in my hand,
Something that I knew wouldn’t do,
To go to battle for my life,
She’d handed me a tissue.

Now I don’t think she was trying,
To go and get me killed you see,
I think wives just don’t understand,
The right choice of weaponry.

The spider then started to move,
I knew that I had to be fast,
I grabbed the head off the shower,
And cranked the water full blast.

I guess you could say I panicked,
As I chased it around the room,
Up, and down, and around the tub,
Til finally it ran to its doom.

And there I washed it down the drain,
And then keeping the pressure on,
I took a bottle of shampoo,
And I squeezed till it was gone.

I thought I’d drown or poison him,
Either way, the job would be done,
I turned to look back at my wife,
She was having lots of fun.

While I was risking my own life,
To protect my love from her death,
She was doubled laughing so hard,
That she’d almost lost her breath.

“Oh! That was so hilarious!”
She said of my near-death escape,
“I wish I’d had the camera,
To get the whole thing on tape!”

And now she tells most everyone,
About this infamous day,
And every time they laugh so hard,
I just walk the other way.

Questions
People always ask me,
Who mean such little harm,
About my days when I grew up,
On a small remote pig farm.

They have silly questions,
Always taking pity,
They just don’t seem to understand,
(They grew up in the city.)

I had a girlfriend ask,
About where our pigs roamed,
Did we keep them penned up outside,
Did they come into our home?

“Yes, yes,” I answered back,
“They come in all the time,
They sleep right next to me in bed,
And they like it mighty fine.”

A fella from New York,
Once asked me a strange thing,
Did we still use those outhouses,
Or have that indoor plumbing?

I told him, “We had both,
But we prefer outdoors,
Cause hearing all those outdoor sounds,
Can help nature take its course.”

One girl from Chicago,
Asked me about my school,
Did we get there on our tractors,
Or maybe ride a mule.

I said, “Oh, it’s the mule,
But sometimes he might balk,
And if the cows won’t let us ride,
Then we sometimes have to walk.”

And there is my fav’rite,
I get where’ere I go,
Now isn’t Iowa the state,
That is known for potatoes?

“Oh! Potatoes?” I say,
Not letting anger show,
“I think you might have us confused,
With those folks in Ohio.”

They nod and walk away,
And seem quite satisfied,
And I don’t feel much for the worse,
Cause they’re only small white lies.

I think it’s just their loss,
And I have a small fear,
If those dopes knew how good it was,
They’d consider moving here.

Where I’d Rather Be . . .
I’d rather be a pirate,
Sailing on the seven seas,
I think that it would feel good,
Living just as I would please.

I’d get up when I want to,
And I’d go to bed quite late,
I’d ride up in the crow’s nest,
And I’d drink with my first mate.

And if some guy had treasure,
It’d only be my duty,
To take my boat right to him,
And steal all of his booty.

If somebody messed with me,
A bad fate would befall them,
Laughing, I would grab their neck,
And then I’d keel haul them.

(Now I’m not exactly sure,
How to keel haul some one,
I will have to look it up,
But it sounds like lots of fun.)

And then there are the wenches,
That all pirates seem to get,
I don’t know where they come from,
But I’ll have a few I bet.

People would call me swarthy,
And I’d get to shout, “Avast!”
A flag of skull and cross bones,
Would hang high upon my mast.

Maybe even best of all,
I can lose a couple pounds,
Because a heavy pirate,
Is seldom to be found.

So that’s all I could ask for,
Booty, wenches, and my crew,
Sailing out there on my ship –
Pirate pants . . . size thirty-two!

till next time,
Jason