(Based on a story in the Minneapolis StarTribune newspaper)
The Sixth of March in Lakeville will not soon become forgotten,
When the food truck blew up – shredding metal into cotton.
Nothing but the steering wheel remained in place that day;
Ev’ry other particle was blown to Mandalay.
The ev’ning had been peaceful, with most folks tucked into bed,
While visions of the Weather Channel or hockey round them sped.
Sidewalks had been shoveled, and a thaw was on its way;
The quiet bourgeois neighborhood in guiltless stupor lay.
But forces beyond man’s control were working late that night,
Preparing to give man and beast a brobdingnagian fright.
(Of course the ladies are included in this epic tale;
Common gender nouns in English tend to often fail.)
The clock had struck eleven when the detonation brought
The residents of Lakeville underneath a juggernaut
Of sound and fury so severe that many thought a rocket
Had targeted their wardrobe down to the very pocket.
Condiments in packets fell like sleet, and bread rolls too;
Had there been a sheep about there would be Irish stew!
But miracle of miracles, although the wreck was vast,
Not a living soul was injured in that lusty blast.
The angels, or the dybbuks, or whatever you may please
Protected all those innocents from looking like Swiss cheese.
But sadly not a one of them was ever heard to claim
That a higher power had preserved them from the flame.
The crater quickly filled with slush and ketchup, while the smoke
Of the embers glowing still the firemen did choke.
Shards of glass lay scattered round about like gemstones freed
From the hoard of misers who repented of their greed.
Authorities swarmed over the explosion site with care,
Examining debris under the microscope’s stern glare.
They broke for coffee often (and to have a little smoke)
And with their rods and rulers they did prod and they did poke.
What caused this fulmination is debated with contention;
Was it cooking gas or was it terrorist invention?
Was there sabotage by a competitor’s paid lout,
Or had there been a discontented jar of sauerkraut?
No one knows for certain why catastrophe made sport
Of such sober people who but rarely did cavort.
But just remember food trucks, though they serve a menu broad,
Can suddenly and noisily become the hand of God!