There once was a borough called TooNormalVille,
Where everyone was normal, but they’re not normal still.
They ironed their socks,
And they polished their clocks,
And they vacuumed the crumbs off the sill.
They ate square potatoes and uncrusted toast,
They worked 9-to-5 and vacay’d on the coast,
No weirdos allowed,
Visitors right cowed,
Sundays were always pot roast.
The Mayor wore the same red necktie each day,
“I look so respectable,” I’d once heard him say.
“No complaints here!” he cried.
“We’re so happy,” he lied.
No one ever led another astray.
The children were raised like prized thoroughbreds,
They’d practical thoughts in their practical heads.
They colored their skies blue,
Because no one knew,
’bout chartreuses, cyans and jam reds.
But just past the walls of the community pool,
Where the dumpster weeds bubbled up tangled and cruel,
Lived a girl named Miss Funk,
Who collected weird junk,
And taught art at the local high school.
She painted her eyelids electric sky-blue,
And taught neighbor kids to play bass kazoo.
She wore trapeze dresses,
Her hair long, wild tresses,
And she rarely if ever wore shoes.
She built a small following on old school rock tunes,
Encouraged the kids to dance like buffoons,
“ROCK ON!” she screamed loudly.
“DANCE!” she called proudly.
Then hammered the drums like typhoons.
Well, the teachers all fainted in a sensible mound.
The school board called parents and lawyers around.
The principal turned pink.
A town on the brink.
The mayor on TV just frowned.
He shouted, “STOP THIS! THIS WEIRDNESS IS BAD!
THE CHILDREN ARE IN DANGER; THE PARENTS ARE MAD!
Who approved all this folly?!
We’ve a curriculum, by golly!
Soon they all be saying, “COMRADE!”
But nobody listened.
Cuz they were busy, excited children that day
Building treehouses shaped like a trout ballet.
And painting the moon
With a glitterfork spoon
Grown adults remembering to play.
And slowly the town became splendidly odd.
Folks planted spaghetti. They argued with God.
They dreamed impossible things,
With mechanical wings,
And danced in the rain slipshod.
For a town can survive without tidy front yards,
Without yoga, strip malls and slick greeting cards,
But a town disappears—
Yes, it shrivels and clears—
When it’s run by stuffy blowhards.
So if someplace you go is too proper and neat,
With identical shops and identical streets,
Go jiggle the doors.
Go jig on the floors.
Go bang on a different drumbeat.
And if asked, “Why be silly? Why weird? Why so odd?”
Ask them why weirdness in their town is outlawed.
Because cold hearts are thawed
By booting the tightwads
Who’re too afraid to show that they’re flawed.
Part 2 coming later this week.
