A few years ago, I became acquainted with an irrepressible octogenarian known as Dame Ruth, whom I met on a web site for wannabe writers. The web site has since gone to the Great Beyond and sadly, I have lost contact with her. She had established a ‘tradition’ by publishing a particular poem on May 1st every year. Here is her poem, and my responses to it:
It’s the First of May!
My quick response was:
You could try
But not until
At least July
I used Minnesota in the above because I needed a four syllable northern state, not because I was picking on that state. But it started me thinking about Prairie Home Companion, Garrison Keillor and Norwegian bachelor farmers whom I always associated with Minnesota.
I was alone on my regular 5-mile walk later that day, and my brain needed something to occupy it. So, I worked this out as I walked:
Spring in Minnesota
Through Minnesota’s icy spring
Norwegian bachelor farmers cling
to thoughts of fucking in the hay
outdoors, when comes the First of May.
But Mother Nature’s not so kind
to Minnesotans so inclined.
Uncaring, oftimes she persists
with snow and sleet and freezing mists.
The farmers, sad, return to hearth
and porno flicks to keep them spry.
Till warmer climes spread farther north;
most likely, not until July.