RR 1, Box 245 Rushville, Indiana 46173.
In the merry month of May,
Out in the good ol’ state of Iowa,
On a hillside full of ruts,
A bunch of old iron nuts
Are as busy as a swarm of bees In old junk up to their knees.
Swapping, buying, selling, telling lies galore.
Only honest dealers are allowed, that’s for shore.
Here you are apt to find most anything,
A flywheel, valve, a piston, or a spring.
Good advice to you I would render
Before parting with your precious legal tender.
Know your old machine with great precision
Long before you make that critical decision
Of saying, ‘It’s a deal, that’s what I
Be sure it is correct, oh yes, indeed.
On finding it does not fit at all,
You are sure to pucker up and bawl,
‘That crook, he skinned me good, I swear.
When we meet up I’ll grab his hair!’
Tut, Tut, my friend, don’t such threats repeat.
Instead, turn to him the other cheek.
Don’t let him know you have been abused.
Only act like you are terribly amused.
Next year return and set up on that ol’ hill
Some engine bug for that misfit will swap a bill.
That’s what keeps this strange bazaar alive.
Surely you want this field of tradesmen to survive
So all of us can return and trade our trash
For something better and hopefully some cash.
Yes, this is the way to promote good will,
Swapping off your junk on Waukee’s hill.