Long To beat the band Poems
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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
(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!
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
True Blue Fisherman He Longed To Be
Once a seeking lad of long dreamt desires
true blue fisherman he longed to be
within summer's heat, its burning hot fires
went he through desert to welcoming sea
Only to find that it had no hungry fish
nor even lobster, his favorite dish!
Trekked he on back, to his small hometown lake
with rod and reel in his young trusty hands
swore, I am a fisherman, not a fake
no more of fishing failures can I stand
With that he baited his first shiny hook
saying, fish live here not in a damn book!
Casting away, far out into yon deep
over to were the big catfish oft hid
Swore he, I will eat fish before I sleep
fried in cast iron pan with no lid
With that spat out, he felt some long hard jerks
delighted that his fresh earthworm bait works!
Reeling in his long line to beat the band
hoping for grand daddy catfish to eat
now firm gripping rod with both of his hands
with a hard yank, a boot lands at his feet
Aghast, at this failure and its great shock
from old boot fell out only torn red sock!
Spouting curses that would make sailors blush
re-baited, out farther he cast his line
praying for fish, then that long silent hush
huge fish was landed, life seemed so fine
Swelled with pride, as this was a full meal
cried, fisherman am I, the real deal!
R.J. Lindley, June 23rd, 1973
Rhyme, ( A Young Boy And Heart's Truest Of Desires )
In theory I thought you would like to know
That I didn’t practice the piano
I’m a noted rebel
Who is now in treble
For showing my staff to a soprano
The keys are a problem, almost a curse
When I lose mine I can’t go and rehearse
Yet I press the pedal
On the heavy metal
To beat the band, chapter and verse
On a scale from one to tenor, would
You recommend a woodwind or windwood
And why play a wrong chord
When you can cut a cord
Of timbre wood from where it once stood
They said that we were in-de-chorus
Of which we didn’t join since they bore us
That’s me and Melody
And her ‘sis Harmony
Who prefer climbing the range before us
We chime the bridge onto sharp rocks and
Rest on D flats made by god’s own hand
Though avoid the clefs
Both steep and bereft
On that classical crescendo land
Later while talking jazz with Al Legro
He said I should meet alto Lea Gato
And after I meter
That I should seat her
On the bench I refrained using a day ago
They held a concert that had a small glitch
Due to Lea’s false-et-toe that did twitch
We hammered her toe spur
To try and compose her
Yet tempos flared for her being off pitch
I love music but prefer natural things, you see
Like fishing for bass with strings off a bowsprit
I do enjoy rhythm
Mostly with her, not with him
And with a cappella of fellas fish the middle C
Low Down Blues
Night was wickedly long and so sad
woman gone with everything I had
No recollection of this in the plan
this gal done left her loving man
crickets chirping to beat the band
This gal done left here for all time
took my heart and every thin dime
No sorrow floats in her wicked heart
no crying now, praying I don't start
lord knows this man sure did his part
She left a few plates with an old hat
took my fine dog, left her old cat
No worry how her man going to get by
no good-bye note, told no reason why
now this heart has started to cry
Night surely can not get any worse
so sure my life wrapped in a curse
No future hope in this tired old life
had sweet plans to make her my wife
see only darkness, misery and strife
R.J. Lindley
04/17/1978
An old write that I wrote while drunk on whiskey
the night my love Stacy took off for greener pastures!
She phoned me 4 days later from Houstin Texas.
Told me her uncle had died and she was about to inherit
a damn lot of money! Then said, I just didn't want to share
any of it with you.
Life is like that sometimes...
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’.
keeping the rest of us locked out
the community planned is the building
of the little kingdoms
all equipped with their walls &
if they could afford it, get the permits,
you know they’d have a moat
to beat the band---
no doubt jealous of the
richer, whose money has lead them out
to the international waters
so they can have their islands away
from the laws that **** the rest of us,
no doubt jealous of the richer,
who fly up to the space stations,
under the guise of a special space endeavor,
making a new place to live,
sketching out the new empire
so as to avoid the radiation poisoning &
inevitable mutations that the rest of us will
get to cash in when the
nukes come a flying
left & right
from one madman to the next---
with white picket fences &
strict notions of behavior,
with a neighborhood watch
lined inside with rifles declared just under the
2nd (while still paying private security---
can’t have enough guns after all),
this is the wave of somebody’s future,
just not yours or mine.
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."!
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!
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