Poems by Neil Dickinson

There once was a fellow named Abe
And today is the day he was slayed
John Wilkes Booth took his life
As he sat with his wife
Who was visibly shocked and dismayed

In Kentucky Abe Lincoln was born
A State that would later be torn
When a war was declared
And a nation prepared
For a lot of dead soldiers to mourn

He moved the Hoosier State
Where they always have corn on their plate
In the law he was trained
Much respect he attained
Winning many a rousing debate

In The Senate he later would serve
With copious gusto and verve
Then The White House he sought
Which he won by a lot
But many down south were unnerved

As President, Lincoln decided
That the law of the land was misguided
And that slaves should be freed
But the south disagreed
And the country was badly divided

What ensued was a horrible war
Full of death and destruction galore
The battles were heated
The south was defeated
But one aimed to settle the score

Now one hundred and forty-nine years
Have elapsed since his family and peers
Put Abe Lincoln to rest
In a hickory chest
With their faces all covered in tears

On the penny and five-dollar bill
Lincoln's image is used to instill
A sense of assurance
And fiscal endurance
Cashiers keep them locked in a till

So today we remember a man
Who was clearly no flash in the pan
With his odd looking beard
He was loved and revered
But was not a big hit with the Klan

There’s a fellow we knew as Air Jordan
Years ago many planes he was boardin’
When he left his abode
To play games on the road
He was larger than life, like Flash Gordon

With the Bulls he was clearly the leader
With three kids, he was also a breeder
He could jump really high
That’s no word of a lie
Off the court he was quite the good deeder

In his prime he won titles galore
And controlled what went down on the floor
He got pounded each night
But he always took flight
He was graceful as Eva Gabor

Once he tried playing baseball, but stunk
As he couldn't hit pitches with junk
Also those that had none
So it wasn't as fun
As a drive through the paint for a dunk

He’s enjoyed spending time on the links
And he plays quite a lot, but he stinks
He has lost many bets
And incurred many debts
But his wife still wears diamonds and minks

After failing at 2 other sports
He returned to the basketball courts
Where he starred once again
Making boys out of men
Faking many right out of their shorts

Michael’s never been frugal or thrifty
On the court he was clever and shifty
He’s the greatest of all
Making hoops with a ball
Now this tall glass of water turns fifty

There once was a man called Costello
A silly Vaudevillian fellow
He expired this day
So this tribute we pay
To a man who was shaped like a cello

He quit high school and moved to L.A.
Found some work and decided to stay
Soon he carved out a niche
With a chance to get rich
From the comedy roles he could play

He teamed up with a comic named Bud
Who up until then was a dud
They created some skits
With their wiles and their wits
That were funny, just like Elmer Fudd

"Who's on First" was a great bit of jest
That many still think was the best
That has ever been done
In the annals of fun
And can still make us laugh when we're stressed

Lou Costello showed wonder and glee
When we saw him each week on TV
With his deviant mind
He was one of a kind
Such a jolly good fellow was he

Easter weekend's a time when we feast
On a turkey that's freshly deceased
Or a slow roasted duck
That has run out of pluck
Or a lamb that's been recently fleeced

Many places are holding parades
With traffic cut off by blockades
As folks line the streets
And as cops walk the beats
Of their city and town promenades

Many candies and eggs will be hid
So that many a cute little kid
Can damage their teeth
And their gums underneath
In a sugary takeover bid

As for me, I'll watch sports on TV
While indulging in crackers with Brie
Washing down with some suds
Such as Molsons or Buds
Then I'll empty myself when I pee

So I hope you all have a good Easter
As you sit in your den on your keester
Or chill out with your chums
Or be flapping your gums
On the phone with your brother or seester

His paintings are slices of life
Depicting the joy and the strife
And the highs and the lows
Of the subjects he chose
With artistic panache he was rife

Norman Rockwell was born long ago
At a time of upheaval and woe
When fiscal depression
And social oppression
Comprised not a good status quo

At a very young age it was clear
There was only one path he could steer
With his sketches and such
He impressed very much
And got better with each passing year

He was hired when still in his teens
By the Scouts to create cover scenes
Which were folksy and smart
As Director of Art
With the talent instilled in his genes

Pretty soon all the world knew his name
And many an accolade came
To this man of great style
Who could charm and beguile
With the pictures he put in a frame

Over 300 covers he drew
For 'The Post', as his influence grew
As a man with a gift
Who gave people a lift
When they found they were gloomy and blue

It’s the day Norman Rockwell expired
But he’ll always be loved and admired
For all he engendered
With images rendered
That never get dated or tired