The Ballad of the Guy Who Works Really Hard

April 26, 2006

by Jack, age 10

This is a poem, a poem by me,
A very good poem, as you shall soon see.

The man you see is a car repair tuner,
His name, his name, is Jake P. Hayes, Jr.

He works really hard, all day and all night.
And his 5 o’clock shadow could give you quite a fright!

He owns a Ford pick-up from twenty-oh-two,
He calls it the Cockroach, cuz’ it’s the color of poo.

He takes it to the carwash ’bout every sixth week,
But some time before that it starts to reek.

He went to college in Boston Massachusetts,
He has a degree, he’s just tryin’ not to lose it.

His best friend’s name, why it’s Alex D. Moss,
And he offered him a job at the Village Car Wash!

It’s a good-payin’ job, don’t get me wrong,
And the Cockroach could use a bath before long!

But Jacob’s a handyman, works good on cars,
He can fix any car, maybe even yours!

So he turned down the job offer, so that was that,
And he went home to see his kitten, Jinkie T. Pratt.

He loves Italian food, pizza’ll do fine,
He eats many pizzas, from two up to nine!

He was born some day ’round June time, Friday, I think,
So that leaves the day as the missing link.

He lives in Chicago, on State Street and Main,
Complex 100, Apartment 3A.

He grew up near Seattle, with two sisters and mom,
His dad was not with them, he was long gone.

Well Dad, poor guy, he caught a high fever,
And that was the end of Jake P. Hayes, Senior.

When he moved away, he bought a fat cat,
And that was the father of Jinkie T. Pratt!

So Jake wasn’t lonely, cuz Jink’s lively and fun,
So you know Jake’s happy, and my poem’s done.

*** Note from Jack’s fifth grade teacher–

Jack was given a picture of a person to write about. He chose to write a poem and did a fantastic job! I am so proud of him!

***Note from Jack’s mother–

Is anyone else thinking Richard Corey?

Richard Corey

WHENEVER Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed, 5
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace: 10
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, 15
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Edwin Arlington Robinson. 1869–


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