In a Sow’s Ear
Big Timber, Mont.
It appears I have lived long enough to be “recognized.” For what, you may ask ” deeds of derring do? Donating a kidney? Ending all wars, famines and mental distress? No, nothing so noble. I’ve become renown for manure. I’m speaking of my most recent book, “How To Shovel Manure and Other Life Lessons for the Country Woman,” which has been nominated in the humor category in two different Publishers Book Awards!
There will be a prestigious banquet connected with each award. Speeches and accolades will ring out, one in St. Paul and one in Los Angeles. Did I wish to attend either celebration? If not, perhaps I would write a brief “acceptance” speech in case I triumphed?
I practically drooled envisioning myself not only being there but actually winning. You know, sort of like Julia Roberts accepting one more Oscar. But sigh. Reality is reality. So, here’s my “acceptance” speech to be read by the person who will accept on my behalf. Cross your fingers …
Acceptance ” or not…
When my publisher said I’d been nominated,
I thought perhaps I’d hallucinated;
Would I care to attend the Midwest Awards?
I got so excited, my racing heart soared.
Just in case, they said ”
I should write a few words of acceptance;
Therefore I’ll put some in verse,
For I cannot attend, I sadly declare,
And here are the reasons, all true I swear.
To get to the airport 80 miles away,
I’d have to get up and be on my way
At two in the morning to be sure to arrive
In time to be searched at a quarter to five.
Where I’d have to disrobe including my boots,
And pass through the archway
Which beeps and toots;
Then I’d have to enter a little glass cage,
And stand like a dunce or someone crazed.
Then a uniformed woman
with all sorts of charm
Would tell me to spread ’em
and hold out my arms;
I’d assume the pose of
crucifixion on the cross
While she’d wave a wand
like she was mixing sauce.
She’d pat me up, and she’d pat me down,
She’d fondle my belly and all around;
Her probing baton would go beep, beep
When it found the metal in my left knee.
All over my body the rod would bob “
Why couldn’t a man be doing this job?
If John Wayne held the wand,
I wouldn’t object,
I’d let the Duke feel all that he wanted by heck.
At last, they’d let me get dressed,
I have to trudge miles with no place to rest;
From concourse to concourse following signs,
My suitcase on wheels dragging behind.
I’d be strapped in a seat
with more torture in store,
Couldn’t stretch out my legs
both aching and sore;
They’d fly me to Denver
where I’d have to safari.
Through mazes and mazes
of concourses sorry.
So thank you Midwest for selecting my work;
I’d be there with bells if I wouldn’t hurt
From the torment of travel
in those beastly airplanes,
Where you can’t rest or sleep,
you just put up with pain.
There’s no one to drive me, no cute gigolo,
So I have to stay home, I just can’t go;
But good luck to you all,
may the best book win,
And thanks so much for including me in.
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