First place: Debbie Gifford

Down at the Haggin,
Near where the Delta flows
In June of ’09
After the full moon rose,

The museum was empty.
It was way past nine.
The lights were all out.
And the exhibits were fine,

But a mummy was mad.
You may ask, “Why so?”
Ready or not,
It was his time go.

Tomorrow he’d be gone.
Why, he had been told,
After sixty-five years,
“You may crumble and mold!

Tomorrow you’ll leave.
We are sending you home.
San Francisco, it is.
It’s closer than Rome.

You will be going by train
Or maybe by BART,
But away you will go,
If need be, by cart.”

What options had he?
What should he do?
He started to rise.
He started to stew.

He would stay. He would hide.
But remain, he would.
To San Francisco? No way.
He’d escape if he could.

He must get started.
He must not wait
The morning would come
And determine his fate.

With deception and magic,
I’ll trick’m, thought he.
I’ll throw in some toilet paper.
They’ll never miss me.

How clever! How brilliant!
In Stockton, I’ll stay.
I’ll be free-er than free
And forever can play!

Noisy that night,
He put his plan into place,
But the mummy was clever
He left not a trace.

The morning came quickly.
The curator was sad.
The docents, they cried.
They’d miss the “young” lad.

That coffin, it traveled
Both safely and sound,
But in it was nothing,
Merely tissue was found!

The newspapers, they lied.
What else could they do?
The mummy was missing
How could it be true?

Now to this day
That mummy resides
In Victory Park
He spooks, then he hides.

The people are scared
Of troubles in the Park
But it’s merely that mummy,
Leaving his mark.

San Joaquin Brides

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