A REmix of an old poem I wrote several years ago. Rhythm and message fixed up.
There once was a boy who lived in a town
That sat in a valley named after a noun.
The boy's name was Jib, he jibbed more than well,
His surname was Jibberly, and he could spell.
He spelled words like "gangrene," "abstrusive" and "moot"
He spelled in the shower, he spelled in a suit.
He learned definitions and learned them by heart:
His parents were happy and thought their boy smart.
He went to a school in the center of town;
His teacher, in his mind, was less than a clown.
For while he was funny (Jib's laughter was loud),
His teacher did not enjoy such laughing crowds.
The teacher was solemn and hated disruption,
And so saw Jib Jibberly's laugh as corruption.
But one day, Jib Jibberly laughed not a bit.
In fact, he was angry, quite ready to spit!
The lesson was plain and simple and true:
About all the foreigners planning a coup
To overthrow everything good in their land,
And this was far more than the young Jib could stand.
"These things that you say, they aren't quite true!
It seems that you hate all these people, you do!
People are people, they're all on the level.
It isn't what's foreign, but you who're the devil!"
Well this was far more than the teacher would stand.
Jib Jibberly's face from the schoolroom was banned!
At least for the day, if not for the year,
And Jib, to his classmates, appeared very queer.
Jib Jibberly went, and he huffed and he puffed.
For with many angry ideas he was stuffed.
Why was he silenced? Oh why was he spurned?
For speaking some truth, only hate had he earned.
And so he went on, not noticing that
An old man appeared, in a big black top hat.
The old man called out to Jib with a voice
That echoed quite strangely and violence and choice.
"Jib Jibberly, here! Come speak with me now!
Yes, I know your name, do not ask me how.
I hear that you've caused quite a stir at the school,
And called your old teacher a big fascist ghoul!"
Jib Jibberly said that all stories were right,
And that made the old man go bright with such light.
"You're well on your way to revolution's path,
And if you're not careful, you'll suffer some wrath.
My name is the Rebel, and Rebel I must!
It's freedom, it's truth and it's justice or bust!"
He sat on his afghan and stroked his white beard
Far longer than Jib, which made Jib feel quite weird.
"Shout all you like, but this shouting is bunk.
Unless you can act, your mission is sunk.
Guitar songs and art are quite useful as well,
But sadly, my friend, what they do then is sell.
You need something that can't be traded or sold,
Else your revolution will do what it's told."
Jib Jibberly couldn't say naught to this man,
Who looked like a Gypsy stuck in Japan.
The wheels they were clicking, Jib's brain caught on fire.
And as he so thought, the fire grew higher.
It burned on the top of his curly round head,
Until his white hair had all become red.
He then understood his place in the world,
And so with his hair, his mouth upward curled.
Jib Jibberly bid a goodbye to the man
Who called himself Rebel (whose real name was Stan).
Jib Jibberly changed the world in his life:
He fought against tyranny, hatred and strife.
He disobeyed laws, he disobeyed kings,
He disobeyed presidents wearing gold rings.
Jib Jibberly, too, spent time in jail,
Jib Jibberly, too, learned how not to fail.
He never did see that old Rebel again,
Whose real name was Stan (but called himself Ben).
Perhaps this old Rebel was just an illusion,
And this may have been an honest conclusion,
Were 't not for the afghan and top hat he found
On his way to visit his old brick school ground.
Jib took both these gifts and returned to the place
Where ev'rything started, in Jib's time and space.
Created: Dec 25, 2009Document Media