Good Lord, It’s Ipswich


Good Lord, It's Ipswich

I bring, for my belov-ed home,
This brief Thanksgiving prayer and pome.
The only problem is that I’m
Still searching for a word to rhyme
With “Ipswich.”

I want to sing the praises of
This little burg I’ve come to love —
Its quirks, its kinks, its oddities.
A word to rhyme, though, if you please,
With “Ipswich.”

I thank Thee, Lord, for letting me
Enjoy our Town menagerie:
The clams, the greenheads, fisher cats,
The deer, the squirrels, and now, the rats
Of Ipswich.

For Masconomet, I give thanks
That he allowed us on these banks
And didn’t squawk, nor get deranged,
When “Agawam” the white man changed
To “Ipswich.”

We give Thee thanks for William Paine.
We give Thee thanks for Mr. Crane.
We give Thee thanks for all who so
Ungrudgingly gave land, and dough,
To Ipswich.

Our thanks Thou didst protect us through
The Feoffees’ morphing, Old to New.
We thank Thee that it’s over. Oh,
We thank Thee, Lord! The lawyers, though,
Thank Ipswich.

I praise Thee for Town Meeting, Lord,
Where citizens, in one accord,
With never even one dissent,
Advance the noble government
Of Ipswich.

We had an opening, a lack.
Bob Markel left; would not come back.
But Thou providedst, graciously,
A new T.M. to lovingly
Run Ipswich.

For this, we humbly bow to Thee:
Today, Town Hall is candle-free.
Town Manager hath set us straight —
Hath kept us from incinerat-
Ing Ipswich.

Of restaurant restrooms left unclean,
Our risk could not have been foreseen.
Thou moved our Board of Health to quiz ’em
So none might suffer botulism
In Ipswich.

We thank Thee that Thou art most pleas-ed
Not to let us be diseas-ed;
Rather, West Nile to allay,
Thou givest fumes that we may spray
On Ipswich.

Let all Creation sing for joy:
MacAlpine Thou didst not destroy
When from his Schwinn he tried to soar
From Boxford halfway back, or more,
To Ipswich.

Our Chicken Lady suffered long.
She suffered hard. Thou made her strong,
That many hurdles she might clear
To make it safe for chickens here
In Ipswich.

Thou knewest how I’d love this place:
A village worthy of embrace.
Not Hamilton, not Topsfield. No.
Not Essex. And — thank God — we’re so
Not Rowley.

About this year, I reminisce,
And thank Thee, Lord, for all of this,
And humbly pray for more good times —
Plus, if Thou couldst, a word that rhymes
With “Ipswich.”


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