Spirit of Radio

Edith worked the overnights
She sat there all alone
With nought a one for comp-ny but
His relaxed dulcet tones

That somehow did emit a sort of
Subtle sexy growl
And she would join immodestly
For his signature howl

“A whooo this is the sly dog here
I tell you I don’t bite
But I’ll bark and growl and take you
Through the lonely night

We got some Pistols coming soon
And then the Violent Femmes
So be sure to tune in right here
At KHY FM!”

And Edith listened as Sly Dog
Would play her favorite tunes
Pretending he spoke straight to her
Beneath the waning moon

She’d answer all his questions and
Converse quite easily
With the voice she found on her
Radio frequency

But one day Edith spoke to Dog
Near had a heart attack
Because dear Edith was quite sure
That Sly Dog answered back

And she tested her theory sure
That something was amiss
Until he said it loud and clear
“Hey what it be, Edith?”

From that day on they chatted so
‘Bout all that suits their fancy
Like whether the Foos were all that
And whether Sid killed Nancy

And whether it’s Beatles or Stones
Or if Kurt’s recognition
Would be so if he hadn’t died
Or Fender over Gibson

And times when it was just about
The sun was due to rise
They’d get all philosophical
And just talk about life

Then one night Edith came to work
To Sly Dog said “Hello”
But there would be no answer back
She thought “Where did he go?”

She tried to find what happened but
All her attempts were thwarted
When she found that all Sly Dog’s shows
Were always prerecorded

But Edith bound back quickly
And not one to be depressive
Now she swears her new best friend
Is Flo from Progressive

This poem is dedicated to Wolfman Jack, Rodney Bingenheimer and all the overnight deejays who were there before overnight meant prerecorded.

Also thanks to Syl at Syl65’s Blog for his poem 10:55: You’re On The Air for inspiration.

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Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?

Oh, to pick a spot so random,images
And go at it with sheer abandon,
May have had teenagers dreaming,
But now takes on a different meaning.

Of prospective bruises and taking a chance,
On literally having ants in your pants,
Discomfort in a head that knocks,
Against various pebbles and rocks.

And for what took less than a quarter hour,
There are still remnants after days of showers,
And I find it all a bit uncanny,
How it found it’s way into every nook and cranny.

But I suppose I’d have to do,
With such bragging rights at 42,
And though Paul McCartney is lovely, he too is old,
And I wonder if he’d still do it in the road.