I Never Wear a Long Tie

I never wear a long tie,
I always wear a bow.
People sometimes ask me
Just why this should be so.

I tell them that I have a friend
Who always wore a tie
Until a fateful summer day
When he thought he would die.

Getting off a Detroit bus,
He thought he heard a cry.
He turned around to offer help,
but the doors closed on his tie.

To have a long tie grabbed
Can really be a bummer
Because a tie is strong enough
To hoist and swing a Hummer.

The driver took off down Michigan,
deadheading to get back sooner.
My friend, of course, went with the bus
Like a lamprey on a tuna.

He lost a shoe at Trumbull;
The other at Rosa Parks.
His socks were gone and his feet raw
By the time the bus reached Clark.

His belt gave way and he lost his pants
As the bus came up to Junction.
By Livernois, he started to fear
His legs would cease to function.

At Central, my friend was naked
Each toe a bloody stump,
When the driver looked over, saw him,
And halted the bus with a thump.

He opened the door and stood there.
But the look on his face was strange.
“I’ve told you and told you,” he snarled,
“Detroit drivers don’t give no change.”

This tale is a lesson in dressin’
And the meaning’s as sharp as a fang.
A long tie’s a noose in the making.
Wear one when you’re ready to hang.


John B. Payne, Attorney
Garrison LawHouse, PC
Dearborn, Michigan 313.563.4900
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 800.220.7200
©2010 John B. Payne, Attorney

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