Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BUNG TOWN CANAL, by BENJAMIN FRANKLIN KING

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BUNG TOWN CANAL, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Do you remember, tom, billy, and sal
Last Line: N dive off once agin in the bung town canal.
Alternate Author Name(s): King, Ben
Subject(s): Canals

DO you remember, Tom, Billy, and Sal,
The old swimmin' days in the Bung Town Canal?
The big millin' logs fast asleep on its banks,
We used to jump off of and cut up odd pranks
In our tropical costume. We used to make Sal
Go home when we swum in the Bung Town Canal.

I never'll forget it, an' 'tween you an' me,
You 'member the place where the mill uster be?
We had a long spring-board out there 'n we'd scud
An' jist go head foremost clean inter the mud.
I may fergit some things, but I never shall
Fergit them old times 'round the Bung Town Canal.

Nobody need never say nothin' to me
'Bout the Blue Danube River er banks of the Dee,
They can't perduce sights like some 'at I've seen
Crawlin' up on its banks and off in the green
Old marsh where the scum and malarier are,
'S the pizenest things in the world out in there.

Me an' John Price caught the gol blamedest thing,
With six legs an' four fins 'n a yaller-jack sting,
Two eyes in its head an' two horns in its tail,
An' it carried a shell on its back like a snail,
So we tuck it home an' skeer'd mother an' Sal
'Ith what we fished out of the Bung Town Canal.

Once they's a stranger 'at jest took a drink
From the Bung Town Canal, an' course he didn't think
What he was doin', an' after awhile
He went an' turned yeller, as yeller as bile;
So doctors all went to perscribin' fer him,
Makin' his chances a blamed sight more slim.

What they all said was that he had a snaik
Way down in his stummick an' he better take
One or two whiskeys 'fore eatin' each meal,
Then in a week er two mebbe he'd feel
Better. So natcherly he tuck to drink,
Usin' rye whiskey 'bout three months, I think.

Course havin' snaiks in the stummick is tough,
But snaiks is a-knowin' when they've got enough.
So gittin' dissatisfied, most of 'em fled,
Some hid in his boots and some got in his bed.
I argied the pint 'at he never'd a died
If they'd a jest let 'em be on the inside.

We buried him there where the low grasses creep,
In a bed of pond-lilies we put him to sleep,
Where the meddy-larks sing and the cry of the loon,
An' the rice-hen is singin' a dolefuller tune.
We left him alone, after writin' his gal
Concernin' his death an' the Bung Town Canal.

Oh, them barefooted days an' the spot where I'd lay
An' jest steeped my hide in the glory o' day,
A-hearin' the bulrushes whisper an' sigh,
An' watchin' the shadder-clouds hurryin' by.
How I long to go back there, with some old-time pal,
'N dive off once agin in the Bung Town Canal.

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