Whistling Mac

MacArthur, MacArthur, MacArthur, MacDove

had a face that only a mother could love.

Two buck teeth, a wart on his nose,

one green eye, one pink eye, his delicate pose.

He was as ugly as a sock soaked in soil,

but Mac could whistle like a kettle a-boil.

He could whistle two miles to call his dog back.

Whistle like the sound of a steam engine's stack.

He could warble a whistle to made the girls sigh.

Rustle up a tear from a cow-puncher’s eye.

He could whistle birds down from the blue

with an improvisational twit-twoo.

He could whistle a symphony not missing a note.

Do woodwind sessions while clearing his throat.

“ How do you do it? " asked one man at last.

Said Mac, " I pucker my lips and blow the wind past!"

Mac was a bird in human disguise

with his wet lips perched to harmonize.

I wish you could hear that ugly man blow

“The Yellow Rose of Texas,” pianissimo.

© 2001 Dan Kantak