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Poem

Jack Bogan died last week, the last
of the Whippets, a garage band big 
in a small way back in the Sixties. 

The Whippets had a following 
in Chicago and its suburbs. 
They played high school dances,

holiday parties and graduations. 
Like other bands they believed
they would fill Yankee Stadium. 

They practiced late at night 
entertaining friends and strangers
and driving the neighbors nuts.

Perhaps with the right break 
they would have made the charts,
appeared on American Bandstand 

with Dick Clark, his hair perfect,
praising them to the sky before 
bringing out the superstar. 

Lightning struck for a few, it’s true. 
But as it did for Jack last week 
the music finally died.
 

Donal Mahoney

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