Most Recent Jingles

This inconsequential bee

Provides sweet honey

For shrimps like me!"

"Well!" huffed the tree.

"My bark's good for tea!

But my greatest charity

Lies in the shade I ably

Bestow on thee

Who only comes up to my knee!"

They bought up the meadows,

Built McMansions and pools,

And casinos in ghettos -

Those arrogant fools

Now the rich have it all,

While the ninety-nine percent,

To the wealthy in thrall,

Are camping in tents.

We pay your taxes

That repair the roads

Where you drive your Lexus's

You odious toads.

It's not that we evy

Your jewels and jade;

It is not jealousy

That's fueling our rage.

We just want a chance

For a good-paying job,

So we've taken a stance

We're not a lawless mob.

All we want is some hope

For some green in our lives,

In a future not remote

Where the economy thrives.

Now in my middle age,

I know they were wrong -

Huge money is a cage

Though it can make you strong.

But that strength is a myth -

It will not save you.

When you come to the end

You can't take it with you.

So invest in the good,

The decent, the pride

Of a life well-lived

Let that be your guide.

That bug is bound for supper; yes, that bug is bound to die.

My heart is always gladdened by my little feathered friends.

A sighting of a brand new birdie thrills me to no end!

Whenever I see a new one, I run to get the book,

And quickly grab binoculars, to get a better look.

When I go outside I hear the birds in conversation.

Whenever I look up, geese are flying in formation.

And when I'm in the car I search the sky for red-tailed hawks.

I'm an avian voyeur, 'cause at birds I love to gawk!

Yet the weather makes me shiver

I'm not ready for this onslaught, in my heart of hearts

We will get out the old tractor

And discover what has wracked her

And what needs to be replaced, before the plowing starts.

Now the tree branches are falling

And Met-Ed I will be calling

As the power lines come down and my electric goes away.

Still I cringe at every new sound

Of tree limbs tumbling to the ground.

The hum of generators begins to fill the day.

Now the gray twilight encroaches

As the end of day approaches.

The sky is turning whiter, when it should be turning pink.

In the driveway with a yardstick

Once again we measure how thick -

Eighteen inches is insane, for October, don't you think?

Of all the silt and sand and stones and twigs that in it lay. 

It seemed that I could scarcely clean a half of it away. 

The more I shoveled sand and dirt, the more got in my way. 

Of all the silt and sand and stones and twigs that in it lay. 

I calculated more or less that it a ton would weigh. 

I strove to finish the whole job before a rainy day. 

Of all the silt and sand and stones and twigs that in it lay. 

It seemed that I could scarcely clean a half of it away.    

It seemed that I could scarcely clean a half of it away. 

The more I shoveled sand and dirt, the more got in my way. 

I calculated more or less that it a ton would weigh. 

It seemed that I could scarcely clean a half of it away. 

A storm whose origin must have been the ocean or the bay. 

Came suddenly across the hills and tried my work to stay. 

It seemed that I could scarcely clean a half of it away. 

The more I shoveled sand and dirt, the more got in my way.   

The more I shoveled sand and dirt, the more got in my way. 

The dirt became a slimy mud and forced me "hell" to say. 

I wasn't getting for this work the meanest sort of pay 

The more I shoveled sand and dirt, the more got in my way. 

But would you think I strove until I'd cleaned the thing. Hooray! 

The "Hell" I said did service and the rain washed some away. 

The more I shoveled sand and dirt, the more got in my way. 

The dirt became a slimy mud and forced me "hell" to say.  

On a Saturday evening, eighteen-ninety-five,

Thought up by Lydia Jones Sharpless Hunn

And a prominent lawyer, her dutiful son.

Philadelphia, the City of Brother Love

Was the home of this family, mentioned above.

The purpose? To keep the Hunn boys off the street.

At first they all thought it not much of a treat

For they were all lively and given to noise

But none of them blessed with much avoirdupoise.

So each Saturday evening to keep them at home

And prevent them from being tempted to roam

With the gangs in the alleys where things could be rough

They were made to stay in: write a verse. That was tough!

Reluctant at first, it soon got to be

A most pleasant event, as you will soon see.

For the girls of the family lured boy friends to come

And the Hunn boys soon learned to fetch girls, not so dumb!

Each brought a short verse which was then read aloud

By Ezekiel Hunn to the listening crowd.

They signed nom-de-plumes which were often guess-able

As they sat in the dining room all 'round the table.

Then refreshments were served – ice cream, lemonade,

Crackers, cookies or pretzels or cake freshly made.

There was holding of hands by the young folks in love

Without benefit of mitten or clumsy old glove.

Pens and paper were passed to the crowd as they ate.

Each scribbled a word for his next seated mate

To write an impromptu, some short, a few long.

They were silly but fun; all were read, some were sung.

And "Good nights" were delayed in the big house of Hunn.

Alas, on vacation, when down on the farm

They were coaxed to write jingles and send them straight home

And the Club was exultant each time one would come.

E. Hunn, the stern father, a stickler for rhyme,

Punctuation and spelling was careful each time

To have them corrected, a nuisance, I fear.

But the Jingles were bound in a BOOK once a year.

This pattern continued till nineteen-fourteen.

Then the Jingle Club died, it was plain to be seen.

What with war and some married and living away

It was hard to assemble. Granny Hunn passed away.

The Club remained dormant till nineteen-twenty-five.

When Roland, who now had five kids of his own

Decided to do what his father had done

Resurrected the Jingle! It grew wildly alive!

"We'll start it again, a jolly new Jingle

While all of our children are still living single.

Keep them home off the streets, each Saturday night;

Invite in the neighbors!" And to his delight

The kids all responded — wrote verses galore,

Had impromptus, food, music and danced on the floor.

They met once a month as the children matured.

Neighbors, friends of the family and others were lured.

It grew bigger and better in Faraday Park

Where this Hunn family lived, during lightness and dark.

The Junior Club lasted till nineteen-forty and then

Roland sickened, and so we could NOT meet again.

A much longer span now sped on its way.

Some twenty-four years had fleeted away.

But in seventy-four in Moylan, Pa.

It rose from the dead ashes and is growing each day.

We hope it will live and continue for aye.

Now we're fifty-two people!!! We started with ten.

Women and children and plenty of men!

In various houses big enough for the fun.

Mostly belonging to the family of Hunn.

All those who are scattered in various places

But want to be counted, if not by their faces,

Send their Jingles by wire or mail or by tape.

Written in icing one came on a cake.

From Grandparents-in-law, and the last brought by the stork

They are sent in from Engle, California, New York,

From Alaska, and Florida, Jersey, as well,

New Mexico, Maryland, Massachusetts and Del.

Six generations held together by verse!

(It could be a blessing, it might be a curse.)

But the rhyming gets better — and couldn't get worse!

Like this!

Note: Katherine Hunn Karsner was the ninth child born of Ezekiel Hunn and Anna Jenkins. She was born on September 29, 1899.

A battered old Buick they found at the dump

And made them a hull of its parts.

They used for a mast an old buttonwood stump.

They had for an anchor a bicycle pump.

Their cargo consisted of sugar, a lump.

They found them a steward, all buxom and plump,

Whose feet, when he walked, made a rhythmical clump,

And thus their destructioning starts.

A sail they devised from the skin of a cow.

And, searching along through the junk,

They used an old barrel for part of the prow

And six auto tires, I do not know how!

A figurehead made of the ears of a sow.

A pilot wheel made of a battered hay mow.

Then launched they with splendor the dizzy old scow

But at thirty-two fathoms, it

SUNK.

After they'd been well-fried.

If you don't believe it's likely -

On the first full moon in May,

Betake yourselves a-eeling

Down in the Delaware Bay.

And hear the sleepy twitterings of robins in the bower.

There's nothing so miraculous that shows such perfect surety,

That after tears and sorrowing will come a sweet refrain,

As when the skies are glowering, and wetting us imparitally

I listen to the gladsome song of robins in the rain.

Fresh spinach to a rose.

He grows in wisdom as in size

And learns to snuggle close

Within the green leaf's curling edge

(This thought makes me morose.)

For wash as well as woman can,

She may dislodge the sand

That clings to freshly garnered greens

(Just read and understand).

She can't dislodge the baby worms,

Grown wise beyond belief,

That snuggle coyly underneath

Each curly spinach leaf.

A double tragedy lies here,

Let him who will, deny it.

Said worms meet an untimely death,

While ours is a wormy diet.

You'll trip athwart a spoon!

Cold water'll splash down your neck

As nine times rinsing she

Denudes it of its slimy snails

And sand, and chickery.

Commencing with a bushel full

Of greens, that fast diminich,

The dirt and weeds and worms vacate

When Polly washes spinach.

And issued from the cellar. I descended rapidly.

I looked behind the furnace, in the coal bin, the distillery,

But overhead the kitchen floor was creaking fit to break.

And leaping up the cellarway, I thought to trap it easily;

The kitchen was deserted, I had made a huge mistake.

I traversed every room again, and even scanned the vestibule.

The noises all eluded me 'til I was daft, almost.

No matter where I seemed to search, they lured me on persuasively

'Til I was forced to go to bed, and to give up the ghost.

With the ghost of a smile on his face.

But along came a suitor with much pedigree

Who had money and lived in a manse.

And then i discerned with the utmost chagrin

That I hadn't the ghost of a chance.