Best To Beat The Band Poems
It's raining cats and dogs on a dark and stormy night -
with such a stroke of genius, a poet starts to write.
Inane clichés he's banging out to beat the band,
a booby trap as big as life to bite the poet's hand.
It opens up a can of worms to catch the early birds
but with no bird in hand he'll have to eat his words.
The tropes are fresh as daisies, with infinite supplies
of broken-hearted lovers, and rainbow butterflies.
Garbage in and garbage out, it's fun and games for all,
to sell you down the river and drive you up the wall.
For if it's true a pen is more mighty than a sword,
then we're as good as dead, for to death we will be bored.
He Clapped For Us All
he could clap like it hurt his pink palms,
regarding us with sacred consideration
promises, words, meaningless, bland,
creations for every special occasion,
words waving like proud embattled flags
and he might rub noisy skin on cold hands,
like desiccated snakes in brown paper bags,
before describing some special acquaintance
yes, confabulations will fly to beat the band
and I, a child, supposed he smelled like laundry,
this holy man privy to the grand plan
with his coal tar soap,
black shoes so polished for Sunday
and we will sing like we mean it
sing with a singular
sing in the plural
sing for life, for death
sing against roof and wall
we sing, wise and fool
while he clapped for us all
I worked in a bowlin' place settin' pins,
Tryin' not to let a ball break my shins!
In those days of yore, pins were set by hand,
And you had to hustle to beat the band!
I was around fourteen when I was hired,
And was around fourteen when I was fired!
The boss man paid me fifty cents per hour,
'Til one night our relationship went sour!
I advised him where he could stuff the job!
Said he, "Find another line of work, Bob!"
Couldn't face workin' there 'til I retired.
Found work pumpin' gas when I was rehired!
8 November 2014 - Entry for Sara Hendrick's "Jobs" Contest
He plied the Mississippi River on the paddle wheeler 'Dandy Dame'.
Gamblin' was his profession and three-card monte was his game.
He became very creative at palmin' that elusive ace of spades.
Such dexterity and sleight of hand he had practiced for decades!
He embarked in Saint Louis for a cruise to the town of New Orleans.
On his arm hung one of his gaudily dressed bordello 'queens'!
He wore diamond rings on each finger and impeccably tailored suits,
A homburg hat, pearl studs, gold-tipped cane and alligator boots!
He toted a concealed derringer just in the event there was trouble,
And he took a table near the door so he could lam on the double!
He ordered Jack Daniels bourbon for the dudes he was soon to con,
And sized up the naive and hapless victims who dared to take him on!
The gambler let others win a hand or so to make them feel at ease.
His shill closely watched as the gambler, his moment was to seize!
His winnin's piled up as bettors tried to locate the shiftin' ace.
Losers dropped out of the game and other suckers took their place!
One astute monte player saw the scam and called the gambler's hand.
He drew his forty-fours, chairs toppled and folks fled to beat the band!
The gambler drew his rod but he met his God, blood oozin' on the floor!
His sobbin' 'queen' clasped him to her breast to know his love no more!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 2 in Paula Swanson's "Pick A Card, Any Card" Contest - Jun 2011
My goodness, how rude can one get?
I haven’t even finished speaking yet.
Your uncaring interruption,
has ruined my thought construction.
Now I have to put my thoughts on the shelf.
Couldn’t you see I was talking to myself ?!
And when I ask you to look for my keys,
Don’t make me beg on my knees.
I hate it when you laugh to beat the band,
Just because you see them in my hand!
And last week when I asked you to find my phone,
Your unkind remark cut me to the bone.
You said “you are losing your mind I fear.,
What’s that thing on your ear?”
It just isn’t nice, no matter how true it rings,
Accusing me of always losing things!
I just hate that quirk about you!!
Hey,.. you seen my other shoe?
Farmer Dan, was a gambling man, who loved to play at some cards;
So to beat the band, he tried his hand, at the other farm yards.
On one day, he struck pay day, at the home of good farmer Dow,
And walked away, with some hay, plus a seven foot tall beef cow.
Dan looked so small, beside his large haul, as they sauntered back home;
But above all, Dan was feeling tall, and called his new cow, Gnome.
Dan had the urge, to try and scourge, more farmers for some winnings,
And if he surged, he’d go splurge, with pockets that would be brimming.
His plan worked, as he clean and jerked, all kinds of swag from his friends;
Yet they were irked, and went berserk, wanting Dan to make amends.
So farmer Dow, wiped his wet brow, and sought one last game from Dan;
Though he kowtowed, he couldn’t wow, the farmers to join his plan.
Dow demanded, a game two handed, to settle up the score,
Plus he planned, to wager his land, for Gnome and quite a bit more.
Each was praying, because to stay in, they had to raise the stakes.
It goes without saying, they were playing, for more than just ‘High Steaks’.
The cloak closet was fairly clean
A brief dust would do it
Then pouring rain set in two days
Leaving white walls unfit
Now the closet isn't sparkling clean
From those down stream's dribbles
On the clean outside all looks well
Inside black ink scribbles
A hard untidy job ahead
Removing the contents
A stinky, stressful employment
Arduousness presents
All purpose cleaner in strong hands
Spray, scrub to beat the band
Unsuccessful accomplishment
Step back, look, the job scanned
Momma said soap and water cleaned
Anything but the soul
But when cleaning problem items
Doubt settles, loose control
Then within my spirit a voice
Bubbles a joyful toll
Just say a prayer for cleansing
And He will make one whole
Finis'
Confessions Of A Poet
As the dark hour slays the great setting Sun
earthly fires in the nether regions flame
The poet's heart must see both to have fun
words spit forth earnestly but not a game
Slashing one's own soul to get the job done
In the midst of the darkest lonely night
poetry burns deeply to release its heat
Poet's heart must feel all to truly write
claws that gash and sharp teeth that eat
Epic battle marching words into the fight
Each verse sings softest melody just to him
as the sky cast down its deepest blues
The poet must see with a mind never dim
searching heaven and hell for any clues
Play with words and toss 'em out on a whim
So says a drunken Muse, the envy of my Soul
she that sulks and cries to beat the band
Pretends winning her heart should be my goal
Robert J. Lindley, 03-09-2015
note--I asked but why, but why end with that closing three verses.
Got back the usual snarky reply, "just shut up and write."!
(On May 1 1960, at the very depth of the
Cold War, CIA pilot Gary Powers was shot
down over the central USSR. Here we are
imagining his conversation with a charge
d'affaires of the US Embassy. Powers
is threatening to go public on CIA
mismanagement and to tell all to the
Russians - the Igors and the Borises.
Powers died soon afterwards in a
helicopter crash.)
What's Thompson's game? He's sent a charge here?
He should have come himself. So, Mister Jinks,
I'm going to assume you're with the firm.
Tell you what happened? Why don't you tell me?
Okay, I didn't trash the Thunderbird -
but I was kinda busy, get my drift?
My face was pulling g's to beat the band
and if you knew the vehicle, you'd know
the seat ejects like bats fly outta hell -
explosive bolts. I'm falling vertically,
and spinning like a top, and if I get
alignments wrong by half an inch,
the console cuts my legs off when I spring.
So what? So this. I had things on my mind.
You want your secrets kept? So train us right.
Foresee contingencies.
The silver buck?
I chucked it. Threw it, as the chute came down,
but kept the pin. The Igors have it now.
Well fella, you got questions and to spare,
and I don't like the way they're shaping up.
Oh sure, you got your job to do. Me too,
remember? I'm the guy who got his ass
shot out the sky at sixty thousand feet!
I didn't buy the farm. Is that a sin?
Tell Langley I'm an Amish - what the hell?
I told them it's curare.
Get real, pal!
They may be Borises, but I won't have
some guy get stiffed because he pricked his thumb.
They'd find out anyhow. You bet I have!
I got more beefs than Texas. Pin 'em back.
Nobody thought it through, this turkey-shoot,
or what we'd do, dumb Joes like little ol' me
when Igor got us. Unprofessional!
Now bust your ass, and get me outta here.
When I get back, I'm gonna tell the world
how Langley hangs its fly-guys out to dry.
We got a First Amendment. Let 'em try!
When I enrolled in magical school
Ma said good luck
Dad called me a fool
He always thought with my IQ
I’d fix people up,
Not saw them in two.
But I had a vision
And my self esteem
Hung on the balance
Of this simple dream
So I packed my bag
Gave Ma a hug
Reached out to pop
Who said with a shrug
Watch each one of your steps
Cause each one of them matters
When you walk without looking
You’re sure to splatter
So take my advice
It may save your life
You can’t step twice
On thin ice.
I’ll show that man who I can be
With a B.A.
In alchemy
I have no doubt that he’ll be glad
Because my plan
Was ironclad
I bought all my books
Most second hand
I was so ready
To beat the band
But where was my room
Did it disappear?
I’m such a buffoon
Then dad’s words appeared.
If you can’t find your way
Don’t lose your nerve
It’s all a small part
Of the learning curve
So take my advice
It may save your life
Rolling the dice
Is a vice
I tried running down the empty halls
But all the doors
Turned into walls
I shouted a chant, before weeping
‘Allah-Kazow-ee’
To get me sleeping
I dreamed about A’s
The prodigal son
The star of my class
Magic 101
But soon my visions
Became nightmares
I woke and screamed
And if pop was there
He’d say, when in a jam
Take an afternoon nap
Cause a grumpy head
Ain’t worth a crap
So take my advice
It may save your life
To make nice
Sleep twice
At last, I made it to classes
But that first day
I lost my glasses
Teacher assumed I was a jerk
Rewarding me
A week of homework
Then my trick cards turned red
The hare’s sick in bed
The bouquet looked dead
So I called home, and said,
“I’m failing Hocus Pocus
Gotta D in smoke in mirrors
It’s so hard to focus
When all I make is errors
Then dad said with much calm
First give yourself a hand
Before counting on others
And soon you’ll understand
So take my advice
It may save your life
Give yourself a high-five
To survive
So I practiced day and night
‘Till each ‘Abra’
Came out right
And my Presto-Digi-ture
Was more than
Amateur
Then all those D’s
Turned into A’s
Without tricks
I was amazed
Hard work after all
Was a giant step for me
But with dad’s advice
I learned the mystery
Each day is irreplaceable
And comes with a caveat
If you waste its offerings
You deserve just what you get
So take my advice
It may save your life
Being wise
Is the prize
He could clap like it hurt his pink palms
and regard us with sacred considerations
Promises, words, meaningless, bland,
created for every special occasion,
Words waved like proud embattled flags
Or he might rub noisy skin on cold hands,
like desiccated snakes in brown paper bags,
before describing some special acquaintance
Yes, confabulations will fly to beat the band
I, a boy, supposed he smelled like laundry,
This holy man privy to the grand plan, with his
coal tar soap, his shoes so polished for Sunday
We will sing
like we mean it
Sing with a singular
Sing in the plural
Sing for life, for death
Sing against roof and wall
We sing, wise and fool
While he clapped for us all
Form:
My spouse and I were ushered to our table by the Maitre d'.
We noticed right off that it was strangely quiet as could be!
Zombies sat at their tables, heads bowed as if in meditation.
Many with glazed eyes as if in la la land under sedation!
I noticed that each held a small gadget in hand,
And deft thumbs clicked away to beat the band!
Each was 'texting' oblivious to family and friends.
Concentrating only on their 'receivings' and 'sends'!
Conversation was limited to an occasional, "Pass the salt, please!"
I was fearful of being tossed out of the place should I dare sneeze!
I mused, "Will future generations learn to text before they can walk?
Lord have mercy! Will kids in the future even know how to talk!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
I'd rather be a hillbillie
than a bybillie or blowbillie
to try to be all three, you see
would drive me to insanity.
Hillbillies are fun and fancy free
can run as far as you can see
may be poor, ain’t got no teeth
but that don’t bother’m in the least!
Bybillies are skittishy and shy
seldom stay, always say "goodbye"
they never joke, don't even try
just mumble, complain, whine and cry.
Blowbillies are too puffed up
have big mouths, can’t keep them shut
boast and brag, often disrupt
full of hot air, they up look quite stuffed!
I’d rather be a hillbillie
than a bybillie or blowbillie
and climb the hills and know the land
and laugh and hunt “to beat the band”.
Hillbillies love to dance and sing
know how to play the fiddle and swing
and love to roam the fields in spring
I'd rather be a hillbillie more than anything!
l
Yo... how's your freakin' weekend so far
Are you cruisin' along in life's happy sidecar
With a soda in hand
Grinning to beat the band
Singing joyful ditties filling your resevoir
Think the jollies are starting to return
Told you I wouldn't stay down long
Not those kind of jollies, you naughty people
Thought you might get me wrong
You people, you really should be ashamed
What kind of dude d'ya think I am
I'm quite respectable and live a clean life
But in reality it's all just a sham
Sometimes I'll be hanging from the chandelier
Overcome be these jollies I enjoy
Dribbling and drooling to beat the band
Talk about jollies, ooooh boy!
Sure must be careful at this ripe old age
Not as agile as I once used to be
So if you happen to hear a bulletin on CNN
Man falls from chandelier, it's me!
© Jack Ellison 2013