The sound of distant hammering reminds Me, though it’s Saturday and barely eight, There’re people up and following designs Because there’re always projects to create, Which now inspires me to put my hand To work, albeit in a gentler kind of way, Nor following a blueprint duly planned, But finding as I write what I’ve to say. But now I’ll turn from what’s still incomplete, Because our dogs have grown imperative And want their walks, but first something to eat, And what they ask for, that I’ll always give. But, hark, the hammering’s paused: he’s on a break And so I’ll follow suit—my leave I’ll take.
Soon, off we’ll go to take our walkabout, Gyp, Tig and I, but not until this verse Has ambled through the wilderness I scout In seeking what I have to say as I rehearse The possibilities that rhymes present And tread the narrow path I slowly find On which I’ll seem inevitably bent Arriving where originally inclined. The truth, however, is quite otherwise: I’ve little notion when I start my poem Where I am headed for as I devise The clearest passageway to take me home. This done, the dogs and I may now proceed Out on our walk, on which I’ll let them lead.
On some dark night, don’t be surprised to find A private eye named Noir out and about, Aiming to detect some deviant inclined To be felonious, some lawless lout— Or otherwise a damsel in distress In need of rescue or protection from A recreant wretch who holds her in duress And boff the lights out of that lousy bum. Each Saturday, on Prairie Home, we hear The latest episode and escapade That Garrison narrates for fun, not fear In his send-up of gumshoes like Sam Spade. When Keillor leaves his weekly show this year, Lights out for Noir—that guy will disappear.
What frontier’s next for us, the human race, Who have been questing since our first disgrace To rectify that sin and prove our worth To justify our being on this Earth? Though we now have superb technology, It isn’t what we make, but how we’ll be: It’s our comportment and our attitudes, Our cultivation of congenial moods That will at last show we have risen above Wayward behaviors and live wise in love.
It’s Saturday, and soon we’ll drive to Mead, The garden park where on our weekly stroll The dogs and I will traipse dirt trails that lead To a pond that’s named for “Alice”—their watering hole. Then from our perch upon a picnic table, We’ll watch for squirrels or turtles ambling there As if this were that Paradise of fable In a serenity we happily share. Often we’re joined by friends, Jim Piercey and Duncan, his black dog, who live nearby And share an equal fondness for this land But make their ventures daily, not as I And Gyp and Tig, who make our weekly jaunt To this serene and green and blissful haunt.