Nursery Rhymes for the Modern World
Guy Fleming, pronounced Gee, like a true Quebecer, paced his cramped three-bedroom colonial, lost in thought. The only sound came from his feet swishing through the hundreds of crumpled up pieces of paper, haphazardly discarded on the floor. His loyal dachshund Ebenezer watched from Guy’s spot on the couch, keeping it warm for when Master came back.
He had been in some tight jams before, but nothing like this. Metaphorically speaking, the fate of future generations rested on his narrow boney shoulders. Shoulders that hadn’t seen the inside of a gym since high school. One day, Guy would pick up a weight. He would get in shape—one day when there was time. But today was not that day.
*Forty-eight minutes earlier*
Guy Fleming drove his relatively new Toyota Corolla down the road to his home. Big fluffy snowflakes fell from the sky. Not enough to be a hindrance but just enough for annoyance. The windshield wipers did their salsa as Guy’s mind ruminated on what had to be done when he arrived home.
Ebenezer was probably dying for a walk. It had been only two hours, but that dog loved leaving the house. Guy would go inside, take a piss and then spend the next half hour distracted on his phone while his dog inhaled the world around him. After that, he would figure out dinner. Was this a chicken pot pie night? Or did he want to sentence some pasta to die in the boiling water below?
That’s when his phone rang. A call that would change Guy’s life forever.
*PLEASE HOLD FOR THE PRIME MINISTER*
“The Prime Minister,” Guy mumbled. “The Prime Minister of what?” His thought bubble burst when he heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line.
“This Guy Fleming?” Holy shit, this wasn’t A Prime Minister. This was THE Prime Minister. The Prime Minister of the whole enchilada — from Newfoundland to Alberta, the leader of Canada. What did he want with Guy? (stop reading his name as Guy. It’s GEE)
“Yes, sir Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Glad you recognize my voice. Have you got a second?”
“Of course.”
“I’m sure you’re aware we’re living in crazy times, correct? There is a vacuum of leadership in this world, and I want to be the one to fill it.”
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“And I plan on filling this vacuum by using your big beautiful brain.”
“I’m not following Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Guy, how many children’s nursery rhymes do you know?” Guy gave the question careful thought, out of respect to the office.
“I’d say several. Why?”
“And what happens at the end of these rhymes to the babies?”
“Umm, uhh, hmm, well sir, they…they die.”
“That’s right, Guy. This world has gone to hell in a handbasket because we’ve been singing slaughter songs to our baby sons and daughters for several generations now. These kids don’t stand a chance when the last words they hear before sleep is, “down will come, baby, cradle, and all.” Who the hell is putting a baby up in a treetop anyway?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“I’ll tell you who, the God damn Socialists. That’s who. Well, I, for one, am tired of it, and I’m not going to let another Canadian citizen be subjected to this mental mind washing anymore. Not on my watch!”
“Sir?”
“Guy, I have spoken with several members of my cabinet, and they all agree, you’re the best God damn lyricist we have in this country.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. With great power comes great responsibility. Yours is to write the next great children’s rhyme. The rhyme to inspire future generations of Canadian children. I want these lyrics singing in their tiny hearts whenever they encounter a moose or skate down the ice.” Guy felt the familiar sense of panic wrapping its cold fingers around his heart.
“Sir?”
“And I want it in my hands in two hours.”
“Wait — what?”
“Canada and the citizens of the free world are counting on you, Guy.”
*CLICK*
*Forty-eight minutes later*
Guy continued to pace his house. The amount of paper covering his carpet reminded him of pine needles on the floor of the Bavarian forest. His grandfather Edgar had a cottage there and,
What the hell was the going on about?
“Come on, Guy, think!” His mind flashed through familiar combinations:
A man
A plan
A canal
Panama
The stars at night
Are big and bright
Deep in the heart of Texas
That’s what he needed. Unbridled joy. Optimism! The longest palindrome he knew. Lines that stayed with you for the rest of your life. Guy slapped the side of his head, hoping to jar loose some word or sound that would fall out of his rather large ears and onto his pen.
There’s a baby!
She’s coming down the stairs
Don’t let her fall
You’re so laisse-faire
What the shit was that? That’s neither joyful nor optimistic! Think damn you think!
When it’s dinner time
What do you eat?
Tyson’s
Tyson’s
Tyson’s
Poultry!
Guy slapped the back of his neck. “Get a grip, man! You’re not writing commercial jingles. You’re writing nursery rhymes! Come on!”
The baby’s in the field
Here comes a hawk…
NO!
Hey little girl is your daddy home?
Did he go and leave you all alone?
That’s just a creepy Springsteen lyric!
Hey hey hey
Is it time for a bath???
Let’s wash your
face!
feet!
Your belly and your bum
And just like that
We’re all done!
“Hmm. Decent? All babies take baths. You can tap each part of the baby when you sing it. Okay, yes, yes, this isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever written. I’ll keep thinking obviously, but at least I have an option!” Guy sat down on the couch next to Ebenezer, who crawled into his lap, and they both promptly fell asleep.
*One hour and twelve minutes later*
Guy woke up with a start. Was that his phone? Shit! Did he fall asleep? Double shit! Okay, okay, he had something. It wasn’t too bad. He grabbed his screaming phone and said,
“Hello?”
*PLEASE HOLD FOR THE PRIME MINISTER*
“What do you have for me, Guy?”
“Well, Mr. Prime Minister, I was thinking — “
“Cut the shit, Guy, and get to it.”
“Okay, how about:
Hey hey hey
Is it time for a bath???
Let’s wash your
face!
feet!
Your belly and your bum
And just like that
We’re all done!”
“All right. I like it. Babies take baths, right? That’s what they do. That’s good. What else you got?” Guy choked on his saliva.
“What else?”
“You’re not telling me you only came up with one option, right? The best God damn lyricist in Canada better have something else.” Guy felt his heart beating so hard out of his chest he felt like he was a passenger on the “tug Nostromo.”
“Umm, uhh, of course not. What about?
When it’s dinner time
What do you eat?
Tyson’s
Tyson’s
Tyson’s
Poultry!
Guy held the phone tightly to his ear, silence as far as the ear could hear. Then suddenly,
“I love it! It’s perfect! You’re giving me a children’s rhyme and a business opportunity! I’ll have my people contact Tyson’s — make them the official chicken of Canada. Great job, Guy!”
*CLICK*
And that’s why you can only get Tyson’s Chicken up in Canada.
