The Red Planet Laser-Powered Rocket Ship to Mars

The Red Planet Laser-Powered Rocket Ship to Mars

The Calliope County Community Fair
Was held every year in the old Main Square
And folks would come from miles around--
You couldn't find a frown in the whole darn town!
Do tell! Uh huh! Doot-do-da-loot, Doot-do-da-loot-doot-do

There were games and shows and food galore
You never could possibly ask for more
But new this year was the best by far--
The Red Planet Laser-Powered Rocket Ship to Mars!
(On Wheels?) Uh-huh! Doot-do...

Lookin' a sight in their big black hats
Their golden braid and their bright white spats--
First in line with their tickets in hand
Were the Amelia Earhart Memorial Grade School Band!
Strap 'em in! Doot-do...

Now no one knows who's alive to say
Just what went wrong at the fair that day
But I heard tell, so I'm telling you
That the man in the booth was two-foot-two
And Green! Doot-do...

The engines roared and the crowd stood back
But 'stead of rumbling down the track
(As any respectable ride should do)--
The Red Planet Laser-Powered Rocket really flew!
Straight up! Doot-do...

The bearded lady's beard turned white
They passed the human cannonball in flight
With a tail of flame and a bright red glow
They disappeared from the view of all below
Oh no! Doot-do...

But before they left the Earth that day
The band was heard to start to play
Away they went, and left no traces
Except for the fading tune of The Camptown Races
Dooh da, dooh da! Doot-do...

I'm sorry to say that's all I know
But summer nights when warm winds blow
They say you'll see, if you look real hard
The Red Planet Laser-Powered Rocket Ship to Mars
(On Wheels!) Doot-do...

So in the future if you should hear
Of a big fair ride that's new this year
Here's some advice you'll need I'm sure
Check that the man in the booth is blue with fur!
(Like me!) Doot-do...

Mark Weaver, Copyright 2002

River At Night

O, Sing me a song
     of sunsets and slivers of moon
          and of rivers that wind down from hills
              in rills and in trickles
                 from seams in old rocks
                   to splash and to tickle
                   tree-toes in their socks
              of moss and brown loam
          and roam, silent and broad
          past towns and downs
            and down through valleys
                at last to the sea
                       to join in the tide
                               and ride
                                        in the silver wake
                                                 of a sliver of moon

-- Mark Weaver, Copyright 2004