I was in the eighth grade
When my friend and I,
Decided to go from Seattle
To Lynden, to pick strawberries.
We were both Boy Scouts
With back packs and sleeping bags.
We left our homes
On this wonderous journey,
By hitchhiking, up North, on old 99.
We arrived in Lynden, later that day
And were told "no strawberries";
it was the end of the season.
We turned around, noting our plight
And slept in a Bellingham field that night.
Back to our homes, we then went
And noticed that green bean picking
Would be another event.
But that is another story.

Go away from here,
go away now.
Who do you think your are?
Will we have to bow?
You "pocket sized" ruler,
with your red tie too long.
Try being truthful
just once in your life.

What can I do?
What can I say,
When you leave me
Here in my dismay.

The good old days are now gone.
The lives lost in this virus run,
Be they daughter, husband, wife or son.
A much too early return to work
Or the open a business, to crowds,
Was poor judgement, if it was used.
It now appears the citizens were confused,
As our leader, said it will be gone
In mid April, when it is warm.
Wrong again, with your guessing game,
As you violate any sense of reason.
Not wearing a mask. It is your claim
The petulant child you; are to blame.
May Karma grab you by your shirt
And plant your face into the dirt.