So, there is this long tradition of bad poetry being read on the Wednesday night of the
Canadian Carey Family Conference. As of late, Pastor Brian Robinson has been the poet laureate, causing endless cringing and consternation as he attempts to state something sane in a jumbled metre. After 5 years of this agony, I decided something needed to be done.
For some reason, Brian often signs his emails to me as BRAIN - dyslexically reversing the "i" and "a." So, I wrote a poem for the Brain - that, unfortunately, turned into a rap.
This is pretty much one of those "you had to be there" moments... but if you were there - here you go!
Every year we all endure
The groanings of one so-called poet.
Who in riddle-speak and overture
Attempts to explain himself in some kind of rambling free verse that neither rhymes nor makes sense
And every year I sit out there
And wonder how much longer,
I’ll have to suffer such hot air
From the Robinson word-monger.
For endless camps, all twenty-eight
The Brain has been here tenting,
Teaching, testing, talking great,
And generally fomenting.
Then with the transfer of Brother Payne
To heights above in glory,
“I’ll be the poet,” said the Brain,
And that’s when things got gory.
The man who coined the word Pamela,
And still tends to call me Mark,
Has reached beyond his strength, I tell yah,
And turned poetry into a lark.
So from this moment I declare,
To the good of all right here,
I’ll be the poet of Care-y,
I’ll take away your fear.
And now that Brain has been set aside,
To keep the teens from napping,
There’ll be a changing in the tide,
As now I start my rapping.
[The Rap]
Carey Conference 2006,
Is lots of fun and full of kicks,
There’s swimming,and a- playing, and a-preachin’,and a- praying’,
And a whole new grounds that needs surveying
Every morning you go to class,
You lay your bike down in the grass,
And in the night you hear brother Morris,
In between you can hike in the forest.
Speaking of Morris, he likes to suck bones,
What’s with that? I don’t know home!
But the boy can preach, no doubt about that,
Even if he wears that funny looking hat.
Now in the night you have a campfire,
You stick a ‘mallow on a long wire,
It bursts into flames, you throw it to the stars
And now your brother is sporting a scar.
You go to bed late, and get up early,
By 4 o’clock your kids are squirrelly.
You wonder why your feet are so dirty,
And when your back will stop hurting.
The rain comes down, As your tent goes up,
And your very close neighbour has brought his pup.
“Don’t use this shower!” “Push a little closer!”
“Four bucks for power!” Let’s get a little grosser.
But every year on Friday morning,
That feeling comes without warning,
Carey’s done? Over? Through?
Why do I feel like going, “Boo hoo?”
I do not know, but I do know this,
Whether Maplegrove or Braeside bliss,
The Carey rocks , it is quite cool,
And I ain’t no Brain… but I ain’t no fool!
Move over Curt "Voice" Allen!
