Meg Wood - A Western Rhyme 'bout a Hurricane Named Bob

Hurricane Bob did not screw around.
Like a red-sashed bandito, he rode into town.
Snarly with power, high up on his horse,
This was no drill, folks; this storm had some force.

T’weren’t no well-heeled Earps out in Newport that day.
Holed up in the hospital, we were tucked safe away.
The grown-ups were fretful as Spanish guitars,
While we crept to the windows, watched trees fall on cars.

Bob’s eye rolled around about eleven o’clock,
An hour 'fore High Noon rang out on the block.
Fury beforehand, still more to come,
Bob wanted a break, time to oil his gun.

The clouds parted clear, winds dead down to breeze,
We all rushed outside, despite our parents’ pleas.
The sun on our faces, we danced in the street,
But Bob was not finished, only resting his feet.

He started back up with a drop here and there,
Then came raging back angry, the skies all a’flare.
We dashed back inside, as Bob steadied his aim.
This town was too small, Bob’s grudge none too tame.

The one good thing to come out of this storm,
Was the loss of the power, ice creams getting warm.
As Bob flew to the north, we all headed downtown,
Where Häagen Daz was giving out scoops with a frown.

The battles go on in this summertime war
As banditos each year give the East Coast what-for.
All this science, computing, radar, and math,
And still history repeats itself yearly with wrath.

Bob’s gone away now, replaced by some others.
Katrina kicked his ass, then all of his brothers’.
Each season brings with it a new round of fear,
While the locals stock up with bread, flashlights, and beer.

Take that, Bob, you take it, we’ll never give in;
As long as we’re standing, you’ll fail to win.
Come back now, I dare you, come wrassle our bay!
(I say that from safety, moved far, far away.)


Meg Wood is a dork. Check out more of her nonsense at http://megwood.com and http://megwood.wordpress.com