Pics and Poetry from
Bob 'The Juggler' Nelson


A summer day in ’72 and the Square had come alive
Jimmy picked a slow tune while Henry fiddled five
I was 22, without a clue, so I followed them along
To a tavern built for troubadours that said it's name was Wrong

As I recall, the stage was small, and smelled like stale beer
A poetic sort of Falstaff aromatic atmosphere
I took a slot, forget-me-not, went on at 2am
The music in my juggling soon made me one of them

Jack passed a plastic pitcher round that no one used for beer
We greatly would appreciate your applause consume our fear
Throw out a line, toss in some rhyme, and pass that hook along
Its not about the money, its all about the song

If Eugene's tooth would sputter, Cappy let it slide
Down Steve's hill to Sandy, where Tabby hitched a ride
Smokey may have lost the way; Helt, he never knew
How Larry whistling Dixie turned Charlie turquoise blue

Ladies wearing Leather made Tirk wilder than the rest
Jonathan went postal, Ronnie felt a bit possessed
Jacqui hit a lick, then saw her pick slip out of Mykle‘s hand
Brett played spin the bottle while Sid preferred his canned

Thinking back on memories, the way it was back then
The bar, its stars, the women: the paper and the pen
You gotta say, up to today, its hard to prove Joel wrong
“You won't forget the picker, if you learn to play his song”

- Bob the Juggler