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Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Ma tried to wash her garden slacks but couldn't get 'em clean
She decided that she would soak 'em in a bucket o' gasoline.
It worked all right. She wrung 'em out then wondered what she'd do
With such a heavy bucket load of explosive residue.

She knew that it was dangerous to scatter it around,
For Grandpa liked to throw his matches on the ground.
Somehow she didn't dare to 'down the kitchen sink',
Just what the heck to do with it, poor Ma, she couldn't think.

Then Nature seemed to give the clue, as down the garden lot
She spied the revered edifice that graced a sacred spot,
Their Palace of Necessity, the family joy and pride,
Enshrined in morning-glory vine, with graded seats inside;

Jest like that cabin Goldylocks found occupied by three,
But in this case B-E-A-R was B-A-R-E----
A tiny seat for Baby Bare, a medium for Ma,
A full-sized section dedicated to the Bare of Pa

Well, Ma was mighty glad to get that worry off her mind,
And hefting up the bucket so combustibly inclined,
She hurried down the garden to that refuge so discreet,
And dumped the liquid menace safely through the centre seat.

Next morning old Grandpa arose; and before he broke is fast
He rubbed his eyes and wandered down, three sheets upon the mast
He 'marked that "Darned, this morning, it do smell as fresh as paint;
with all that cheese from yester eve I'm not sure if i c'aint;

To smoke me pipe an' meditate, an' maybe write a pome,
For that's the time when bits o' rhyme gits jiggin' in me dome.'
He sat down on that special seat slicked shiny by his age,
And looking just like Walt Whitman, a silver-whiskered sage,

He filled his corn-cob to the brim and tapped it snugly down,
And chuckled: `Of a perfect day, I reckon this the crown.'
He lit his weed, it soothed his need, it was so soft and sweet:
And then he dropped the lighted match clean through the middle seat.

His little grand-child, Rosyleen, cried from the kitchen door:
Oh, Grandma, come quick; there's sompin wrong; I heared a dreadful roar;
Oh, Grandma, I see a sheet of flame; it's rising high and higher...
Oh, Grandma dear, I sadly fear our comfort's caught afire.'

Poor Ma was filled with horror, at them words o' Rosyleen.
She thought of Grandpa's matches and the bucket of benzine;
So down to the garden geared on high, she ran with all her power,
For regular was Grandpa, and she knew it was his hour.

Then graspin' gaspin' Rosyleen she peered into the fire,
A roarin' soarin' furnace now, perchance old Grandpa's pyre....
But as them twain expressed their pain they heard a hearty cheer----
and beheld the old rapscallion squattin' in the duck pond near,

His silver whiskers singed away, a gosh-almighty wreck,
W i' half a yard o' toilet seat entwined about his neck....
He cried: `Say, folks, oh, did ye hear the big blow-out I made?
But now I best be crawlin' out this dag nabbit wet....
For what I aim to figger is----Just what the heck I et?'

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