“Hut! Hut! Hike!”
Said the band leader,
preparing to strike,
and the red-breasted shrike
came from out of the trees,
with a swarm-load of bees
and strange varieties
of all types of honeys.
they sped up and prepped
their little yellow stingers
as the birds flapped their wings,
and proved themselves singers.
But the band leader would have none of this!
“No one interrupts my pomp and my flare”
Then he roared like a primal and prejudice bear!
The crowd took a gasp, and on went the show
The punks in the back with their dimebags of blow,
And the curtains rose and fell like the snow
But this was the summer, as all of us know
And the sun doesn’t like it
When the band doesn’t strike it
So down came the rain and everyone left
Now the band leader sat on the stage and he wept
The rain took away almost all of his pep
But he still had the birds
And their lovely little voices
And perhaps he could rethink some of his choices
Admit that his previous judgements were wrong
And come up with a helluva catchy ole song,
The bees could buzz
The birds could tweet
The band leader leads
Them all through the streets,
Making music in the pouring rain
With the people in raincoats rushing for trains
And the elderly tapping the floor with their canes
That’s how old Ian Temple was given his name,

“the band leader”.

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