Farmer, banjo-player, smoker--
Audiences clamored for his famous tune
And chortled chorus: the Laughing Polka.

He played with Polka’s King, Branson to Dakotas.
Back again home trailing ashtray fumes,
A traveling triple step: farmer, banjo-player, smoker

To one-block Willard’s Festival, with Yurkovich and Walker
Polka pilgrims flocked to hear him every June
And his chortled chorus for the Laughing Polka.

He met his match in the fire of a lady polska.
Smoke swirled from seminary school to honeymoon,
Fifty-three years: husband, farmer, smoker.

For his ten children, soon hooked on his tobacco,
He re-wrote the lyrics one dull afternoon,
Cracking jokes for his new Laughing Polka.

But now too late or soon we come to this poem’s volta--
Lungs filled with the black carcinogen blooms
Of a stubbled, stubborn smoker.

My father, music-made, laughs just like my grandpa
Sharing nicotine smiles and named his junior, too.
Father, guitar-player, smoker--
A coughing chorus for the Laughing Polka.

(in memory of Laverne Gregorich, Sr. 1939-2012

Olivia Gregorich  is a graduate of Lawrence University who has  returned home to the greater Eau Claire area for the past year, working in community and high-school arts education.

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