Flathead

Grandpa opened the trunk of the grey ’49 Ford
He took out his fishing pole
No tackle box, just a crappie jig with maribou feathers
"Yeller lead-head with a white head," He would say
To tip us younguns off on how to catch crappie
Some of us listened, some of us didn’t
He flipped that jig out into the pond
Grandpa was lucky at fishing
Some of us were, too, but some of us weren’t
On that first cast the tip of the pole bent clear down
To the surface of the water nearly pulling Grandpa in
He recovered though and fought that fish to the bank
"Flathead!” he cursed and stepped on the fish
So he could get his crappie jig back
Left the fish on the bank and went right back to his car

The grey ‘49 Ford kicked up dust on the old country road
That led back to Bartlett
Where Grandpa lived
When he stopped to get gas
A hot rodder pulled up beside Grandpa in a chopped Mercury coupe
“Hey pops, what mill you got in that hot rod?”
He yelled it at Grandpa in order to be heard over the roar
Of his lake pipes
"Flathead!” he cursed and stepped on the footfeed

Orange Barrels

The black 1950 Ford eased up to the stoplight
Purple teardrop tail lights flashed in Morse code
di-di-da-dit, di-di-dah, dah-di-dah-dit, dah-di-dah
“Chuck you, Farley!”, the driver yells
And flips the other driver off
He looked like Charlie Manson
Had on a Grateful Dead T-shirt
Smelled like wine and pot
They told the cop
He popped a couple of orange barrels
Somebody said
Do you know where he is?
He’s just out there was all anyone knew

Good Time Charlie danced a jig
On the four inch red iron beam
Until he had a flashback
And had to hold on tight
He saw the black 1950 Ford pull into the job
Hey Charlie, watch out for them orange barrels
You might have a flashback
Who are you, Cheech and Chong
Charlie yells
I’m already havin’ one
The car spins out of sight

Down at the ice plant
The boys are baggin’ ice
Singin’ Mr. Charlie and
Sympathy For The Devil
There’s a rainbow in every ice cube
In the future, orange barrels will take on
A different meaning
But for now
It’s a black 1950 Ford
With purple tear drop tail lights
Stopping at Jumbo’s liquor store
In the “bad” part of town.
Leaving a trail of Morse code
That no one understands

On The Road To Damascus

Overheated,
The 59 Chevy pulled off onto the shoulder,
Damascus, Kansas, 5 Miles
Route 66, gittin’ our kicks
Picked up a hitchhiker
Who turned out to be a Brit named Stephen
Asking us if we had been saved,
Just another Jesus Freak we thought
But he wore us out on that road
With accented proselytizing
Until we overheated
We kicked him out on the highway
Hot sun, no water
Persecuted
Just the way he wants to be
We thought
Glad to oblige

Hitting the pushbuttons on the radio
We pick up the only station
The blazing Kansas sun
Got brighter and brighter
Until we were blinded by it
And the radio blared
“Why have you persecuted me?”

When The Poles Switched

When the poles switched
Egg yolks turned white and roosters crowed at sunset,
Jump starting a car became more difficult:
Red to negative black to positive,
Battery companies went broke,
Like objects began to attract,
There was no more polarization in Congress,
Polar bears bought Coca Cola futures,
AC-DC couples switched partners,
The Beatles’ A Day In The Life finally made sense,
Vice versa became the norm,
The Big Rock Candy Mountain was discovered in Kansas
Where tornados spun backwards spewing out entire towns,
The Indy 500 was run in reverse,
Trash trucks delivered trash at curbside,
When the poles switched
Santa Claus became a greeter at Wal-Mart.