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.


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.


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.


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.


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