|Hammer's a poet? (If you can call this stuff poetry!)|
'Twas the week after Christmas and the stores were all quiet.
The contrast was striking from the week before riot.
The stockings are packed away for a year,
In hopes that the shoppers will always stay near.
The politicians were counting our money to spend,
On sugar plums and silliness on a parking lot mend.
The voters had settled in for a year
And prayed they wouldn't get kicked in the rear.
When out in the hallway there arose such a clatter
I jumped from my desk to see what was the matter.
Away to the doorway I stumbled and fell,
And stubbed my toe badly, oh what the hell!
The office was dark and all looked serene,
From the copier's hum to the glow on a screen.
Then my eyes caught the sight that created the clamor
Hulking was the behemoth, our own John Hammer.
From hands like hamhocks and a voice rusty and rough,
It wasn't a mystery, I knew I'd seen enough.
Larger than life with wisdom to matter,
He always has a message, our big guy the Hammer.
"The Council, the commissioners, the tourism folks,
Are doing a number on the pockets they soak.
They have good intentions, of this I am sure.
But too often it's our money they use as the cure.
"I get it," he said while shaking his head,
"They got their plans and community spread
With hotels and restaurants
And n'airy a dread."
"I hope they're right, I really truly do.
I'll even be patient to see if it's true.
They're spending a lot, of this there's no doubt.
They say we have to - or we'll be down and out.
But I'll be watching, in me you can trust.
And counting the dollars before we go bust."
Then he laid a giant hand across his big chest
And stole away quietly and left me to rest.
I know he's around, keeping watch so you know
Fighting the fight and ready to go.
He's your friend and won't pull any caper!
For he lives on in the pages of The Paper!
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