Donald at the Gong

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'Twas nineteen fifty seven and on lazy afternoons

home from school I would eagerly come for televised cartoons.

***

I would sit before the childhood shrine while it was quiet in the house

and vicariously enact my membership in the club of Mickey Mouse.

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We would start off with a fine parade and I knew it would not be long

before the excitement reached its climax for ... Donald at the gong.

***

Every day the hapless duck would attempt to percuss the metal

and every day some new mishap his composure would unsettle.

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Squirtgun-toting nephews would spray into his face

or he would take a swing and spin around because the gong had moved from its place.

***

Once we heard a squishy splat because the gong had turned to mud

and once the gong was made of rubber, which rebounded with a thud.

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But one day I remember well. In my memory it's permanently encoded.

When Donald's mallet touched the gong, with a bang the gong exploded.

***

Tears ran down my cheeks as I slid helplessly from my chair.

My sides ached from laughing hysterically as I gasped desperately for air.

***

Oh, keep your silly Mudville Nine. In my mind there is no doubt.

Next to our Donald the might Casey knows nothing about striking out.

hhhggg

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