Heat Wave.

Heat Wave. (Shakeout)


When it's a hundred in the shade
The furnace man is not afraid
To charge his furnace, fix his spout,
And tap the molten metal out.
He doesn't fuss or fret or pout,
But listen, and you'll hear him shout,
"Good Lord, it's hot!"

The old scrap sorter in the yard,
The guy who works so long and hard
While sun beats down upon his back
And burns his skin from white to black,
He toils outside in sun and rain,
We never hear this guy complain,
Except to moan, as if in pain,
"Oh boy, it's hot!"

Old Sol still flames in cloudless skies,
The wilted molder rams and pries,
While globes of perspiration rise,
Run down his back and in his eyes.
He straightens up and sadly sighs,
Wipes his fevered brow and cries,
"My God, it's hot!"

These boys can take it! As for me,
Tonight I sail for Waikiki
To lie beneath a coco tree
Where breezes, wafted from the sea,
Will cool my scorched anatomy
And if the skeeters bother me
Just sprinkle me with DDT
Then go away and let me he.
"KEE-RIST! It's hot!"

Excerpted from Rammed Up and Poured, a collection of selected poems and ballads by Bill Walkins, which was published by Electric Steel Foundry Co., Portland, Oregon, in 1952.