By Michael Frey
Da DaDa Da
Trumpeted from trumpeting trumpets
making happy circus music and happy people.
It was 1912 in River City, Iowa.
I was hanging by a rope tied around my waist.
My hands bound, mouth gagged with a bloody Barney rag.
The town librarian read from the Bible.
In this sweet town, I awaited my execution, to be
boiled to death in the bubbling black cauldron below me.
The gentlemen wore seersucker suits and straw hats.
The lovely, sweet ladies wore red bonnets and
the darling children read Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang.
There was no reason, no crime.
The insane executioner spoke insane words
and walked around insanely in a grassy field
in a nearby insane park, waiting to be called to kill.
Gas pipes ran in rectangles in his brain.
Summer symphony pillboxes and parasols
flung across the shoulders of lovely women.
Water ran in squares across the desk of the town clerk.
The learned schoolmaster stood at the podium
condemning me and praising my upcoming execution.
His beard was filled with red blinking Christmas lights.
He spoke of â€¦
The women waved yellow handkerchiefs as
the fat mayor walked by, cigar in hand.
Their bodies waved as he waved by.
He stood beside my suspended body and
I could hear the cheers as they lowered me in.