Pay+For+Your+Polka+by+Tess+Jacobson

Dashing down the street, dressed in tartan plaid, He breathes frantically as the music draws closer. The reedy ramble of poorly played polka; The union doesn't take well to deadbeats. The approaching footsteps, the sound of yodels But he only wanted a new concertina!

"So rarely found is a quality concertina," He laments, "if only this damned plaid Were easier to run in, for nigh are the yodels" Surely and swiftly, the union comes closer With cries of "Down with the deadbeats Who don't pay for their polka! "

His life flashes before his eyes to the beat of the polka-- From the sweet, blue tones of his first concertina, To the day he moved out of his house of deadbeats. Looking down, he takes solace in the plaid He dons and wonders if the end is drawing closer, For stronger and more zealous grow the yodels.

But from whom really come these yodels? Are they not sick and tired of the same old polka? In their hearts, they draw the debtor closer, And secretly hope for a new concertina. Unaffected by these visceral thoughts, a plaid Kilt still flutters in the wind to shrieks of "deadbeats!"

The Accordionists' Union shan't tolerate deadbeats. "Dues over talent!", some cry through the yodels. And alas, our sad hero's vesture of plaid Has caught onto a nearby melodeon playing a polka. He yelps, says a prayer, hears his first concertina, As the mob catches up, snickers, and gathers closer.

The night is young and cool, and stars seem closer. Far away are any thoughts of deadbeats. The union is hard at work on a new concertina; They drink and they laugh and they practice their yodels. Under the moonlight, some play a soft polka And dance by a body adorned in plaid.

The moral? Fight for your concertina, but pay for your polka. If the mob comes closer, doff the plaid, For always away from the vicious yodels run the deadbeats.