NO, THIS ISN'T the "Deseret News poetry corner." But you might think it is by the time you finish this column.
* VERSE IN VERSES: It's been said you can sing almost all of Emily Dickinson's poems to the tune of "Yellow Rose of Texas," and Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" goes just dandy to the tune of "Hernando's Hideaway." But I've never read a poem that could be sung to "Home on the Range" until Kris Price of Salt Lake City sent me her creation "A Springtime Plea (or: We Wish You Would Bury Christmas)."
Here are two stanzas:
Spring has arrived! The earth is alive!
The days are sunny and bright . . .
Christmas was fun, but it's over! It's done!
Come on, folks - take down the lights!
They're along the rain gutters,
on chimneys and shutters,
Around every window and door -
They're infesting the trees . . .
I'm begging you, please!
Please remove all this dismal decor.
The poem ends by asking people to spread cheer with a song in their hearts instead of wreaths on their doors. Your house and neighbors will both be "de-lighted" she says.
* OF FOGEYS AND FOLKIES: Well, I'm no Kris Price, but the other night I did concoct some rhymes while watching singer Joan Baez perform on television.
I call it "Old Folksingers at Home."
You can't sing it to anything I've ever heard sung, however.
We used to play guitar like Midas,
Now we have acute bursitis.
And we only sing when Barney's on the air.
We're Petered out, appalled and married,
Across the Mercy we've been ferried -
And only Dylan got to keep his hair.
* IT'S A HIT: Lloyd Murray, the local pundit who - as far as I know - may even write his grocery lists in rhyme, came up with an observation about Hillary Clinton tossing out the first ball at Chicago's Wrigley Field. Here's his wit-and-run play:
OPENING DAY 4-4-94 at 6-FEET
I watched her throw that baseball out;
Was not impressed at all.
The way she throws her weight around
It should have cleared the wall.
* POLISHING THINGS OFF: Finally, to bring things home, we're going to turn to the work of a master. Here's a snippet from a verse by Ogden Nash - written years ago for our times:
Oh would I were a politician,
Or else a person with a mission.
Heavens, how happy I could be
If only I were sure of me.
Sometimes with secret pride I sigh
To think how tolerant am I;
Then wonder which is really mine;
Tolerance, or a rubber spine?